


Our Memories Are Numbered

by rufflefeather



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ Jeep grinds to a halt,  he sees someone running through the rain, he's not expecting it to be Derek. He's not expecting a Derek without any memories either, or an Alpha pack that's coming for all of them. He probably should've, because lately nothing goes the way he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Наши воспоминания сочтены](https://archiveofourown.org/works/788103) by [auntshoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auntshoe/pseuds/auntshoe), [maricon_lanero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maricon_lanero/pseuds/maricon_lanero)



> First of all, I would like to thank the mods for allowing me leeway with my posting date in case I needed it. They’ve done a great job with this Big Bang and were really understanding. There was lots of last minute RL drama that included a broken computer, a broken laptop and a sick child. Because of that, this fic isn’t as fine tuned as I’d like and I am sorry for that too, but we made it and that’s the main thing, I think.
> 
> A great big thank you goes to hardticket, my trusted beta, who is always there when I need her. 
> 
> And Alby_mangroves, you have really gone above and beyond, both with the truly stunning art and your support. But at this point I expect nothing less from you and you only have yourself to blame for that, really. You should just stop being so amazing. (NEVER)
> 
> So on to the story. This started out as an idea for a True Blood crossover and pretty much derailed within the first paragraph so only the idea of Derek’s amnesia and what it’s purpose was, comes from the 4th Sookie Stackhouse novel. The rest is pretty much my own floundering.
> 
> The **Dubious Consent** warning is because Derek doesn't possess any memories of his past and there are some feelings of guilt involved for both parties after the fact.
> 
> ♠♠♠

Steering the Jeep onto the dark road to his house one-handed, Stiles gropes inside his backpack for a tissue. The rain comes down hard on the windshield, blurring the road and the watery headlights of oncoming traffic.

“Don’t you have like, a sixth sense for weather changes or something?” Stiles asks Scott, cringing when shifting gears makes his t-shirt slide cold and soppy over his back.

“Like a spider sense?” Scott asks, just this side of too serious and Stiles snorts.

“Does it tingle?”

“Dick.” Scott leans into Stiles’ space and violently shakes his head, spraying Stiles and the steering wheel with more water.

“Dude,” Stiles yells, shoving Scott’s shoulder, “what the hell?”

“Revenge for the dog jokes, man,” Scott tells him, already reaching for the door handle as Stiles pulls up in front of his house. 

“Just get out of my car, it’s starting to smell like wet––”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott drawls, flashing Stiles a grin and then readying himself to sprint to the front door. “Later.” The car door slams shut and barely a second later, Scott’s on his porch. In moments like this, Stiles envies him his wolf-speed maybe a little. 

The lacrosse gear in the back is starting to smell like stale laundry and damp leather, so Stiles heads home. He’s lucky it’s late because he’s swerving over both lanes as he blows his nose repeatedly, stuffing tissues in his jeans that’ll leave clumps in the washing when he forgets about them. It’s when he’s in the wrong lane that he sees something streak through the woods, a flash of white in his headlights.

“What the ––” Stiles mumbles, slowing abruptly. He thinks he imagined it when he sees it again: there’s someone sprinting along the road, weaving through the trees, running like the devil’s on their heels.

“This is none of your business,” he says to himself, leaning over his steering wheel and squinting into the night, trying to see through the onslaught of rain. “Curiosity gets your best friend bitten.”

Slowing down, Stiles glances to the left. There’s no way to get a good look in the darkness but this clearly isn’t someone going for an evening jog, and who’s he kidding, he can’t do it. He’s not going to leave a person out there in the dark, maybe running for their life. It’ll only keep him awake at night and Stiles really doesn’t need to add anything to _that_ list. Stiles scrubs his face hard and fast with both hands, causing the car to swerve even more. “Ah, shit.” He grabs the wheel, speeding up to overtake and then pull onto the shoulder fifty yards in front of the runner. “I’m so gonna regret this.”

A gust of wind and water hits him in the face when he rolls down his window and sticks his head out. “Hey, do you need help?” Stiles yells. The runner skids to a halt and Stiles’ jaw drops. He blinks the rain out of his eyes. “Derek?” Stiles hesitates only for a second and then he’s opening his car door, jumping out of the Jeep and leaving it idling, because Derek Hale on the run can’t mean anything good.

Derek is barely out of breath but his shoulders are hunched over, his whole posture a flashing warning. There’s no blood as far as Stiles can see, which is pretty far since Derek is wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. He’s snarling but his fangs retract as soon as his eyes meet Stiles’. 

“Are you all right?” Stiles tries again, because this is weird even for Derek.

“Get back,” Derek hisses, stalking around Stiles in a half circle. Stiles keeps very still, tries to be as non-threatening as possible even though he’s pretty sure his rabbit-fast heartbeat is giving him away. It’s not that he’s afraid of Derek –– who, lets be fair, looks like a drowned cat –– but the something Derek’s running from could be here any second.

“What’s on your tail?” Stiles asks when Derek makes no move, chancing a glance back to where Derek came from. The woods and the road are both quiet. Even the rain is slowly letting up. “Why aren’t you shifting if you need to run?” Derek still says nothing and Stiles rolls his eyes. He’s clearly not going to get anything else out of him and the rain might be less but it’s still wet. “Come on.” Stiles takes a step toward Derek and reaches for him. “Get in the car, I’ll get us out of here.”

“Don’t come near me, boy,” Derek says, hunching lower to the ground, nails extending.

Stiles frowns. “Derek?” he says, quieter, worry starting to creep up his windpipe, “it’s me. Stiles.”

Derek’s eyes widen a little, tilts his head to the side as if he’s dividing his attention between Stiles and the sounds of the night. “You know who I am?” 

“Well, yeah. We’re––” Stiles hesitates, “––we’re friends.” They’re not. Not really, but enemy of an enemy and all that.

Derek stares at him and it’s unnerving. He’s not exactly known for keeping eye contact. “No, we’re not.”

Stiles sighs. “Okay, we’re not friends exactly but you can trust me. That’s the truth.”

“It is,” Derek says. It’s no question.

Stiles suppresses a shiver, hugs his arms around himself, stuffing his freezing fingers in his armpits. “What’s the matter dude, this is really freaky. Don’t you know me?”

Derek breathes in and out through his nose a few times, eyes scanning the empty road before they settle on Stiles again. “I don’t know _me_.”

“Oh,” Stiles whispers, dumbstruck. This is going to be bad. He stares at Derek, shudders wildly and only partially because he’s cold to the bone. “What do you mean?”

“All I know is this moment and that before, I was running.”

Stiles thinks quickly, stepping into Derek’s space again. “Right,” he says. “Okay, maybe you hit your head and your memories aren’t restoring as fast as you healed.” When Stiles looks at Derek to search for any kind of confirmation, Derek is breathing the air around Stiles. He probably smells of wet clothes and cooled sweat, which can’t be nice. “This is so –– wait –– you know you’re a, uh, werewolf, right?”

“I do,” Derek agrees easily. “And you’re not.” Derek tilts his head again, a speculative glint in his eyes. He looks more wolfish in human form than Stiles has ever seen.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, holding up both hands, “and I’d like to keep it that way.” Derek lifts one eyebrow at him and Stiles would almost call that a smirk on his face. He groans. This is going to end up biting him in the ass but Stiles’ is getting sympathy goosebumps just looking at Derek’s naked and wet chest. “So you should probably get in my car and come home with me. I really don’t know where else you can go like this. Maybe after a night’s sleep you’ll feel better, come on.”

Derek doesn’t move, just looks from Stiles to the car and back again. His fingers are flexing against his thighs but his nails are normal. “I can trust you,” he says and again it isn’t a question. 

“Yes, of course you can.” Stiles says, getting impatient. It’s cold and late and Stiles can’t shake the feeling of foreboding, of worse things to come. He wants to be warm and safe in his Jeep. “And it’s not as if I’m a threat to you, am I?” he says, pressing the pad of his thumb into his eye socket, suddenly tired. “Let’s go, I’m freezing my ass off here.”

Derek nods, once, then steps forward and Stiles goes around to open the passenger door for him. It’s not until they’re in the car that he notices Derek is shivering. _Jesus_ , he thinks, _how long have you been running?_ “Here,” he says instead, reaching between the seats.

Slowly, Derek takes the blanket Stiles holds out, pressing it against his face once, inhaling deeply. With another glance at Stiles, he wraps the blanket around himself and makes a contented sound in the back of his throat.

For once, Stiles doesn’t say anything about puppies and their nests –– he wishes Scott was here to witness it –– just faces the steering wheel so he can drive off. Some time during the short trip home, Derek’s eyes shift from red to green and Stiles sees the tension drop from his shoulders the closer they get.

“I was anxious,” Derek says, à propos of nothing. “While I was running,” he clarifies when Stiles gapes at him. “I felt anxious so I ran. I feel better now.” It’s a good thing they’re pulling in the drive because Stiles is in danger of crashing the car.

Dad’s still at work, so that’s a relief. “Right,” Stiles says, switching off the engine. “That’s good. That you feel better I mean. Thanks for … sharing.” He opens and closes his mouth a few times but there’s really nothing else he can say about that. 

“From the moment my dad comes home, I need you to be really quiet and stay in my room, will that be okay? He’s not your biggest fan right now. Well, he’s not my biggest fan right now either, but never mind. Can you do that?”

Derek looks from Stiles to the house and back again. He nods. 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Come on, let’s go get dry.”

It isn’t until Stiles sees Derek stalk into the house, nose lifting whenever he picks up a new scent, that Stiles realizes just how much Derek suppresses his wolf-side when he’s human. When they pass Dad’s bedroom Derek halts and spends a good few seconds inhaling the air before lowering his head in some sort of acknowledgement when Stiles raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I’ll know him now,” Derek says, “and not rip his throat out when he enters your den.”

“That’s, that’s good.” Stiles swallows thickly and he swears there’s a glint of amusement in Derek’s eyes when he turns around to continue to the bathroom. “You can shower first,” Stiles says, “even though you’re far less likely to catch pneumonia than I am, I’d like to point out. But you’re filthy and I’m no fan of mud between my sheets, so,” he pushes open the bathroom door. “Towels are in the cabinet, use whatever shampoo and shower gel you want, I’ll go find you something to wear.” Derek gives him a speculative look Stiles doesn’t even try to decipher this time and he’s about to usher Derek inside when he looks down. “Oh, dude! Your feet are bleeding.”

With a small frown, Derek shifts his weight on his right foot and winces. “Sorry,” he says and Stiles stares.

“For what?”

“Bleeding on your floor.”

“That’s, um, no big deal? It’s just linoleum, I can wipe it off. Do you, uh, want me to take a look? At your foot? I mean, you’re not going to ask me to cut if off, are you?”

Derek looks at him. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says after a brief silence. “And no cutting.”

“Good, that’s –– something we agree on. Come on.” He nearly puts a hand on Derek’s arm to steer him inside but holds back at the last second and does a clumsy hand-wavy thing instead. “Take a seat, I have a first aid kit right here.” He rummages underneath the sink and resurfaces to Derek perched on the edge of the bath, eyes on Stiles. 

“Why aren’t we friends?” Derek asks.

“What?” Stiles straightens, clutching the first aid box. This night is turning weirder by the second.

“When you said we were friends, I could hear the lie but you want to take care of my wounds,” Derek says. He looks more human again but the head tilt is still distinctly animalistic. 

“It’s complicated,” Stiles says, kneeling down at Derek’s feet.

“I have time,” Derek says, “if nothing else.”

Because he doesn’t know what to say, Stiles lifts up Derek’s foot and winces. There’s a large piece of green glass, probably once belonging to a beer bottle, wedged deep into the sole and Stiles can already tell it’s going to be a bitch to get out. He grabs the bath mat and puts it underneath Derek’s foot. “We kind of had to work together but we don’t –– didn’t trust each other and, I guess life got a whole lot more complicated since I crashed into yours, so, well. A lot of stuff happened. We got off on the wrong,” Stiles snorts, squeezes Derek’s ankle, “foot.”

“But it’s better now?” Derek asks. Stiles doesn’t look up. There’s something in Derek’s voice Stiles doesn’t want to see on his face.

“I was hoping it would be, but here you are bleeding on my bathroom floor.” Stiles barrels on before Derek can respond. “This is going to hurt.” He nods at Derek’s foot, shifts his knee so he can steady Derek’s ankle on it and takes a deep breath. 

“Pain I can deal with,” Derek says quietly. 

“Okay.” He contemplates tweezers for a second, but the glass is too thick. There’s nothing for it, he’s gonna have to use his fingers. “Just remember: me, I like to deal with as little pain as possible, so if you feel the need to claw at something, aim for anything not Stiles.”

“Your name is Stiles?” Derek asks and Stiles looks up. Derek is smiling. It’s a small smile but it’s still a lot bigger and more sincere than any Stiles has seen so far. 

“Uh, yeah. That was probably rude of me. Yeah, I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you Derek Hale.”

There’s no recognition at the name at all, Derek just smiles again and says, “No maiming Stiles, got it.”

Well, no time like the present. Stiles looks down again. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

With great care, Stiles takes hold of the glass, testing it gently to see how easily it would come out –– which is not at all. “Crap,” he mumbles, trying to get a better grip. He has to dig into the skin of Derek’s sole a bit and Derek’s toes twitch. “Sorry,” he says, not looking away from what he’s doing. “I’ll try to be quick.” Stiles tightens his other hand around Derek’s ankle to keep it steady, takes hold of the piece of glass and begins to pull. It starts to move and Derek makes a low reverberating noise, but doesn’t move. Blood begins to run down the glass so it becomes slippery, and makes its way down Stiles’ wrist.

“Oh, gross,” Stiles whines but he keeps pulling until the glass comes out with a soft wet sound. He lets it fall and is taking deep, gulping breaths with his eyes closed before he notices Derek’s hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re okay,” Derek tells him. “You did good. Look.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Stiles says, feeling weak and woozy. 

“You’ll feel better,” Derek says and after a short pause, “trust me.”

There’s something significant in the mimicking of Stiles’ earlier appeal so he feels he has no choice. When he peers through one eye, he’s faced with Derek’s still fairly bloody but completely whole foot. Oddly enough, he does feel better. “Okay,” he says. “Now shower and I’ll clean up.” Stiles is about to leave when he frowns and turns back. “You do know how to shower, don’t you?”

Derek looks like he wants to roll his eyes but he just says, “I’ll figure it out,” already unbuttoning his jeans.

“Okay,” Stiles says, sounding only marginally squeaky, hurrying out of the bathroom. 

First thing he does when he gets to his room after cleaning blood off the floor, is dig through his backpack for his phone because these are events Scott should be sharing in, jesus christ, why does Stiles always end up with this stuff. 

He has a text message from an unknown number.

_Call me urgent._

Stiles frowns at his watch. It’s ten pm which is pretty late but not terribly, so he hits the call button.

“Chris Argent.”

Crap. Allison is about the last person in the world he wants to talk to right now, but since he’s sure the feeling is pretty much mutual, he figures it’s important. “Um, hi, Mr Argent? It’s, uh, Stiles. From school. Can I uh, talk to Allison, please?”

“What about?”

Shit. It’s summer break, so Stiles can’t even use homework as an excuse. “I uh, just came from Scott’s house and he asked me to call Allison. She still has some of his stuff and he wants it back.” 

Stiles can practically hear the angry nose-breaths Argent is taking but it’s the best short notice lie he can come up with. Implying the break-up is permanent probably doesn’t hurt either. “All right,” Chris says, and then in the background, “Allison? It’s for you.”

“Hello?”

“Allison, it’s Stiles.”

“Yes?” 

Going by the tone of her voice, her dad is probably still there. “So, I’m calling about Scott’s iPod and those CDs you still ––”

Allison huffs angrily. “I already told you, I gave him the iPod back ages ago.”

“Uh.” _Great, really helpful, Allison,_ Stiles thinks, annoyed. “Okay, would you mind looking one more time? He can’t find it anywhere.”

“Fine,” she says. He can hear her footsteps thump on the steps. “Stiles,” she hisses after a few seconds, “we have a serious problem.”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters.

“I can’t, not over the phone,” she says, which isn’t what he meant at all, “I need you to come to my house, as late as you can. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Yeah, no can do,” Stiles says, “I have ––” he nearly says ‘Derek’, but it wouldn’t surprise him one bit if the crazy that is Allison’s dad is tapping her phone. “I have a guest. Can’t leave him alone.”

Allison is quiet for a long time.

“Is it safe?” She asks very quietly. Stiles glances at his closed door.

“I think so,” he tells her.

“Anyone I know?”

“You’ve met.”

“Shit,” Allison hisses and then goes very quiet. Louder, she says, “Oh, here it is. I found it. I can probably ask my dad if I can drop it off at your house in the morning.”

Stiles feels a chill run down his spine. He’s still damp from the rain but that’s not it. It’s the same sort of foreboding he felt earlier by the side of the road and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Yeah,” he manages to say, “okay. See you tomorrow.” He hangs up and stares at his phone. 

“Trouble?”

Stiles jumps a little. “Yeah, but nothing immediate I don’t think. I’m sure Allison’ll find a way to warn me if there is.”

Derek’s eyes pinch at the corners. “Allison?”

“She’s––” Ah crap, he’s not getting into that right now. “––my best friend’s ex-girlfriend.”

“Good,” Derek says but he’s not looking at Stiles, just turns to the bed and sits down, wrapped in a towel. Stiles rummages through his walk-in, tosses Derek an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“I’m just gonna go shower while you, oh god, drop the towel,” Stiles says, slapping a hand to his face. When he peeks through his fingers, Derek is staring down at himself as if he doesn’t understand why Stiles is embarrassed. “I’m just––” Stiles edges toward the door and flees.

The bathroom is still hot and humid, and Stiles wonders what happened to him, how he could lose all his memory but still function enough to work a shower. It makes him suspect it has nothing to do with injury and that only makes him worry more.

“Are you hungry?” Stiles asks Derek after a very fast shower since Derek used nearly all the hot water.

“Sure.” Derek, dressed in Stiles’ clothes—which is almost worse than seeing him naked—is stretched out on top of the covers and makes no effort to move.

“No, no,” Stiles says, raising a hand, “don’t get up. I’ll make you a sandwich, no need to help.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks as he deliberately tucks his hands behind his head. Turns out Derek’s real smiles are nice and Stiles wants to count them, hoard them. Instead, he makes a show of rolling his eyes but goes down to the kitchen anyway. Not until he’s there does he wonder if Derek even knows what a sandwich is. Well. Stiles isn’t skinning any rabbits.

By the time they’ve eaten it’s nearly midnight and Stiles leaves Scott a message saying he needs help to do with his ‘monthly problem’. He then settles in his computer chair, idly googling amnesia but it doesn’t bring up anything that’d be useful to Derek. As the minutes pass, he loses hope Scott’ll call back. They can’t do anything about this until they know more anyway.

“So what _do_ you remember?” Stiles asks Derek, who’s looking very at home in Stiles’ bed. 

“Nothing.”

“No idea how this happened to you or why you were on the road to my house?”

“None,” Derek says. He looks vaguely troubled but it doesn’t last long. 

“I gotta say, I’m surprised you’re not freaking out more. In a grumpy, growly way.” There’s another long inhale, Derek tasting the air like he’s been doing all evening. He looks really relaxed, fingers threaded over his stomach, legs crossed at the ankle, ready to doze off. 

“I don’t know,” Derek hums, lifting one shoulder in lazy shrug. “If there’s something I should be worrying about, I can’t remember it. And being here … it feels right. I can’t explain it.”

It occurs to Stiles that this Derek doesn’t carry any of the burdens the other one does. No dead family, no new pack, no threats to his life. His eyes slip closed as Stiles watches him and when Derek is not snoring exactly, but breathing deeply, Stiles realizes he’s either going to be sleeping on the floor or will somehow have to curl around Derek. He probably would’ve hesitated longer than it takes to switch off the light with the other Derek, but it’s easy to slip between the wall and this Derek, and then slowly into sleep.

The sheriff comes home some time after two am. Derek’s quiet growl rouses Stiles from sleep, but Derek just scents the air when slow footsteps climb the stairs. They come up to Stiles’ door and wander away again after a few seconds. Derek sinks back into Stiles’ pillows, kicks at the comforter until both their feet are covered and then blinks as if he only realizes then that Stiles is right there.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Derek whispers.

The urge to just shrug it off is there, but Stiles doesn’t think he should. “I never was, really,” he whispers back. When it comes down to it, Derek has tried to protect Stiles more often than he’s tried or threatened to harm him so, no, he’s not. 

Maybe he mumbles something along those lines, because Derek says, “Good,” and shifts a little closer. “Do you mind?” Stiles is already shaking his head before even wondering what there’s to mind, when Derek is plastered to his back, warm and asleep again.

Allison shows up at eight and Stiles stays at the top of the stairs after having shoved himself in yesterday’s clothes, while Dad opens the door.

“Morning Allison,” Dad says, voice rising with mild surprise. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“Stiles called me, I have some stuff he needs to give back to Scott.” She holds out a paper bag.

“Oh,” Dad says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, do you want to go up and give it to him yourself?”

“No that’s okay,” Allison says, “my dad’s waiting for me in the car.” She’s about to turn away but she hesitates. “Tell Stiles he can call me any time, okay? It’s not because Scott and I –– that we can’t _communicate_.” It’s an odd choice of words, and it’s clearly meant for Stiles, but Dad doesn’t seem to find anything wrong with it. He’s clearly too busy being uncomfortable with teenage love drama. 

“Sure,” he says, “I’ll uh, pass it on. Bye, Allison. Mister Argent.” With a nod toward the car in the drive, he closes the door and turns to the stairs. “Sti––” he yells, “oh, there you are. Good heavens, son, you could’ve come down and spared me.”

The grin Stiles plasters on is maybe a bit too wide to be believable, but Dad doesn’t notice, just rolls his eyes when Stiles says, “What, and miss all that?”

“Here,” Dad says, holding out the bag. “You want pancakes?”

“Nah, going back to bed.”

“God forbid you’re amongst the living before midday,” Dad grumbles, but it’s more good-natured than they’ve been in a long time. It makes Stiles feel equal parts warm and unbearably sad. 

“Exactly,” he says but Dad’s already in the kitchen, so Stiles trudges back up to his room.

There’s a pink iPod in the bag that very obviously isn’t Scott’s, a Grease CD that wouldn’t surprise Stiles at all if it _is_ Scott’s and a stack of what are no doubt love letters. He’s not going to be a terrible friend and read them, but there’s a reason why Allison went through all this trouble, so he tries to sort through them with as little damage to his brain as possible. Beside him Derek makes a face.

“What?” Stiles asks, dumping another letter that starts with comparing Allison to the moon.

“Puppy love,” Derek says. Stiles snorts, then laughs, loudly.

“You have no idea,” he says. He’s about to elaborate when he comes across a plain note, clearly written in haste and not by Scott. 

_Overheard Dad, Alpha pack in town. No idea what it means, but it’s bad news. Suspect they’re after Derek. Dad out meeting other hunters tonight, call me._

The _call me_ part, is underlined three times.

“Alpha pack,” Stiles says, feeling slightly nauseous. “Does that mean anything to you?” Derek shakes his head but he looks worried. “How can that even _be_? I mean, isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, sounding small, and then, “I should go.”

“What?” Stiles flails a bit, sending some of the letters fluttering to the ground. He straightens, feeling oddly blindsided. “Where? And why?”

“I’m putting you in danger.”

_You don’t usually care about that,_ is Stiles’ first impulse to say, but he doesn’t. It’s not entirely true anyway. 

“At least wait until we know more. Was there anyone there last night? When you got in the car with me?” 

Derek shakes his head again. “No. There was only you and me.” 

“Well then nobody should know you’re––”

“Stiles?” Dad calls up the stairs and Stiles snaps his mouth shut. Somewhere along the conversation he’d forgotten to keep his voice down. “I’m off to work, okay? I’ll be back this afternoon after I go shopping, we’re having dinner together.”

“Okay Dad, have a good day,” Stiles shouts back. They sit in silence until the cruiser pulls away from the house.

“Just, stay,” Stiles says with a sigh, running a hand over his head. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek says but he’s frowning. At least it looks familiar. 

Since calling Scott before ten is a waste of time, Stiles begins researching in earnest. Google brings him to a book series about a pack of predators with psychic abilities and does Stiles ever hope that _that’s_ fiction. Everything else is useless, so he scrolls through the bestiary but his Latin is fairly non-existent. Maybe Lydia will want to help. He thinks about how she’d looked when Derek’s claws had sunk into Jackson’s stomach.

Maybe not. 

“You smell sad,” Derek says and Stiles startles at the voice right beside his ear.

“Yeah, I, I was just remembering some stuff.”

When Derek shakes his head and says, “Don’t. Only good things are worth remembering,” it’s like a fist clenching around Stiles’ gut. _I’ll remind you of that,_ Stiles thinks, but _hey, your whole family died in a fire_ is really not a talk he wants to have, ever. “That’s good advice,” Stiles says weakly.

“It is,” Derek says. He puts his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles goes rigid. “You’re so tense.” Strong, steady fingers slide over Stiles’ scalp, knead slow circles along his temples and behind his ears, push gently until Stiles tilts his head forward. Warmth spreads from Derek’s palm when he rests it on the nape of Stiles’ neck. It’s almost a physical thing that undulates down his shoulders, into the muscles framing his spine and Stiles groans, going boneless.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, chin dropping to his chest, “what is _that_?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says easily, “but it helps you.”

“It really, really does.” He has no idea what this is, but he’s going to be pissed if it’s something Scott has been holding out on. He could’ve done with some of that particular brand of werewolf power when he escaped the Argent basement two weeks ago. “If you keep that up I’m gonna fall asleep.”

“You need it,” Derek murmurs, turning the desk chair until Stiles is facing him. He pulls Stiles to his feet and normally Stiles would put up some sort of resistance but he feels really _right_. “You need this,” Derek says again, and he tugs Stiles close, one hand on his neck, the other low on his back.

It’s such a simple thing but it swells thickly in Stiles’ throat. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this, but it’s been so long since someone just stopped for a second and looked at Stiles, saw the constant anxiety he carries around with him. Derek’s hands tighten. He makes a small noise, crowds closer until his nose is pressed against Stiles’ neck.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, feeling breathless. He hesitates, unsure of himself, then brings up his hands and fits them carefully against Derek’s sides. He’d call it a hug if this was anyone but Derek Hale.

“I want you to stop feeling like this,” Derek says, voice muffled. 

“You can tell how I’m _feeling_?” This is not something Stiles wanted to know, because oh god, how is he supposed to keep anything secret around these guys? Derek just holds him tighter until all Stiles can do is hug Derek back. Standing pressed chest to knee with a hot body in his own bedroom is a whole new experience and Stiles isn’t entirely sure what to do with it. 

After letting Stiles cling to him for a few minutes, Derek begins to move down. He’s just rubbing his face over Stiles’ clothes, eyes closed and inhaling deeply like he’s in scent heaven. Stiles isn’t sure what kind of response is appropriate here, it’s not like he’s got a lot to compare to, (and he’s also trying _very hard_ not to contemplate the visual image of Derek sliding down his body) but he desperately wants to pet Derek’s hair. To make sure he doesn’t, he fists two handfuls of Derek’s sleeves and holds on while he wonders if it’s possible to pass out from forgetting how to breathe. When Derek’s halfway down Stiles’ sternum he stops, pushes up Stiles’ hoodie and t-shirt.

“Dude, _dude_ ,” Stiles squawks but Derek holds him still by spreading his fingers over Stiles’ ribcage and dragging his nose over Stiles’ heart. It tickles and Stiles can feel goosebumps rise because Derek’s nose is a little cold, until Derek turns his face and rubs them away with the stubble of his cheek. “What––” Stiles croaks, cradling Derek’s skull, to push him away or hold him closer, he hasn’t figured out yet.

“Here,” Derek says, breath gushing warm over Stiles’ nipple. “This is where it hurts.”

Oh.

“Yeah,” Stiles quietly says, his shoulders relaxing. He gives up and cards his fingers slowly through Derek’s hair. “I know, but there’s not much we can do about that now.” The warmth of Derek’s mouth leaves him, his t-shirt sliding back down and then Derek is looming over him, eyes twinkling. 

“I can distract you,” he says, tilting his head toward Stiles’ bed.

“Oh my god.” Stiles goes a bit cross-eyed at the mental image of _that_. “Jesus christ. That’s not –– we’re not –– Derek, you don’t even _like_ me.”

“Then I’m an idiot,” Derek says. He gravitates toward Stiles just a little more, lets their mouths touch. It’s not a kiss by a long shot, but it’s certainly not accidental either.

“Okay,” Stiles says, unable to move even though Derek steps back, smirking a bit. “This is uh, distracting all right. And not at all motivating to help bring your memory back.” He swallows dryly and pushes his hoodie down.

“You don’t like me either?” Derek asks.

“I–– you’ve got a lot on your plate, it’s not, it’s not your fault.” It’s pretty awful when Derek looks down at his feet. Stiles elbows him in the ribs. “But maybe I’m an idiot too, right?”

“Right,” Derek says. He gives Stiles a sideways glance and smiles. “Come to bed?”

“Um,” Stiles says but Derek rolls his eyes and drops to his knees. He gives Stiles a smirk that says he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing and Stiles just thinks he should thank his lucky stars the real Derek isn’t such a flirt or Stiles might’ve done something inadvisable by now. 

When Derek has Stiles shoes untied –– helping him out of them with really unnecessary ankle rubbing –– he tugs Stiles over to the bed and lies them down. “Just relax,” he says, slipping a hand under Stiles’ hoodie, mouth open and warm against Stiles’ shoulder, “for a little while.”


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s someone here,” Derek says, nostrils flaring and eyes murderous.

“Wow, okay.” Stiles jumps out of bed holding out his hands. “It’s probably just the UPS guy, so down boy.”

“If your UPS guy is a werewolf,” Derek growls, claws out and Stiles has time to think, _shit, shit, they’ve come for him_ , when the doorbell rings.

“Well, I doubt death will announce itself by ringing the doorbell.” Stiles snorts and goes to open the door. 

It’s Scott, mouth open to no doubt demand what’s going on when Stiles is yanked back by his hoodie, Derek taking his place, claws extended.

“What the hell,” Scott yells, growing fangs, “get out of here, Stiles!”

“Whoa, there’ll be no dog fight on my porch,” Stiles says, flailing his arms uselessly for leverage as he tries to step between them. Derek won’t let go though, so he gives up with a dejected sigh, hanging a bit pathetically from his scrunched up top. “Derek, this is my friend Scott, who is also a werewolf. Scott, Derek has no idea who you are, so he thinks you’re here to eat me.” He tries to send Derek a pointed look, but it’s hard from his vantage point. “After ringing the doorbell.”

It does nothing to ease up the posturing and growling. “I should start carrying around a squirting bottle with water,” Stiles mumbles just as Scott says,

“What’s going on, what do you mean he doesn’t know me? Why is he here, and why do you smell of each other like you’ve been––” His eyes widen comically and Stiles has a brief but hilarious debate with himself to leave Scott with his assumptions just to keep that look on his face.

“Chill out, both of you,” he snaps, because sadly, they don’t have time for this. “Derek back off, Scott stop projecting hostile vibes or whatever and come inside.”

Strangely enough, Derek backs off and Scott … pouts. It’ll do.

“So he remembers _nothing_?” Scott asks when Stiles is done explaining. They’re on the couch, Derek leaning in the doorway, and Scott’s face is caught somewhere between awe and empathy.

“Not a thing,” Stiles says while Derek glowers at them. Stiles doesn’t get it until he notices Scott absently swinging his knee from side to side so it knocks against Stiles’. “So we need to find out who did this to him. There’s an Alpha pack in town, according to Allison, and I haven’t been able to––”

“You talked to _Allison_?” Scott demands, rising to his feet.

“Yeah,” Stiles drawls, “because that’s the important piece of information here, not the actual pack of _Alphas_. Who might be out to kill us. You know, until we’re _dead_.”

Scott doesn’t listen. “I can’t believe you talked to Allison, why did you call her?”

It takes effort, but Stiles doesn’t yell. Heartbreak sucks. He knows, he gets it. “She texted _me_ , Scott.”

“Why did she contact _you_ , doesn’t she know she can still––” Scott is whining and Stiles has had it.

“Scott, focus! Her dad is watching her every move, there’s no way she could get in touch with you so she went through me. Now can we please move on to the _important_ issue here?” It’s not a very nice thing to say and Stiles feels an instant pang of guilt. It’s pretty wasted though, because Scott can be surprisingly mulish for a werewolf. 

“I can’t believe you called her,” he says and Stiles can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s working his way up to a tantrum.

“Scott, please,” Stiles says quietly. “I need your help. Allison says there is an Alpha pack, she was going to try and get more information and––” He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

“No!” Scott yells, wolfing out a little and just like that, Stiles is sandwiched between Derek and the wall. There’s a weird vibrating thing going on and it takes a second for Stiles to realize it’s coming from Derek. “You can’t drag her into this, Stiles!” Scott goes on, as if Derek isn’t there. “You _know_ I’m trying to win her over again. She needs to stay out of all this.”

“First of all,” Stiles says over Derek’s shoulder, scrambling against him a bit to get to Scott but Derek is solid and unmoving. He’s getting mighty pissed and he’s not going to let a werewolf pinning him to the wall in some misguided display of protection, derail him from his point, “maybe you need to consider that all of that is Allison’s choice. Maybe there is no winning over, Scott, and maybe she _wants_ to be involved. Second of all, _this is not about Allison_. I need your help. Me, Stiles. Your best friend, remember? For all I know, someone is out to kidnap me, _again_.” It’s meant to be a low blow, but the rapid fire of his heartbeat probably betrays him to more than just his own ears.

The rumbling against his chest grows deep and ominous and Stiles snaps his mouth shut. He puts a hand between Derek’s shoulder blades, splaying his fingers wide. The last thing he needs is for Derek to go Alpha and forget who he is entirely. 

It angers Scott even more but at least he visibly calms himself. “I don’t know if I can help,” Scott tells him, moving toward the front door. “But if I were you, I’d go somewhere that’s familiar to Derek, maybe that’ll jog his memory. I’m gonna go talk to Allison.”

“Scott, don’t––” Stiles begins, but Scott is out the door already. It’s probably not the right time to mention she returned his love letters anyway. “Great,” he sighs, flopping his arms down and resting his forehead against Derek’s neck. “Just great.”

“What did you mean, kidnap you _again_?” Derek asks, looking less furry around the edges. He turns around slowly, putting his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, ducking his head until Stiles will meet his eye.

Stiles laughs softly. “Mortal peril is sort of daily business, lately.”

“Is that my fault?” 

Stiles absently wraps his hands around Derek’s wrists as Derek squeezes his shoulders. “Not really,” he says after a pause. “You’re usually there but it’s mostly to prevent even worse things from happening.”

“What’s worse than you dying,” Derek says quietly, sneaking his hands up until his thumbs are pressing to Stiles’ neck, where his blood beats closest to the surface.

There’s a silence because Stiles has lost the ability to think, until Derek moves one hand to the back of Stiles’ neck and leans his head against Stiles’ temple. “So you know of a familiar place, then?” Derek asks. His breath flares hot over Stiles’ ear and he shudders.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, turning his face into Derek’s hair just a little. He probably shouldn’t do this. The other Derek guards his personal space carefully, but Stiles is feeling dejected, and it clearly offers some form of comfort to Derek too. 

It’s time. “Yeah, I know a place.”

“So you’d uh, smell it, if someone else was here, right?” Stiles wants to know before he opens the car door. The Hale house isn’t exactly a tourist attraction and that’s without thinking about that spot where Scott and he dug up, _oh god_ , Derek’s sister.

“Yeah.” Derek jumps out of the car and sniffs the air. “There hasn’t been anyone here in a while.” Reluctantly, Stiles pushes open his own door and lands on the perpetually damp and leaf-covered ground with a thud. He doesn’t know if Derek will be able to smell his family’s remains. Laura’s grave, Kate’s blood. It’s not like he could’ve asked Derek about that before, anyway. _Hey Derek, how’s it scowling? So tell me, do you smell the ashes of your family when you fall asleep at night?_ His nose would’ve been an inch shorter if not bitten clean off. 

There’s a sign on the door that wasn’t there last time Stiles was here and he’s about to ask Derek about it, reaching out to touch the paint, when he notices Derek’s not beside him. He’s looking up from the bottom of the porch steps and, _this,_ Stiles thinks, _must be what the other Derek looks like, when he’s not hiding behind his anger._

Trying to make no sound at all, Stiles goes down the steps, wraps his fingers around Derek’s forearm and squeezes.

“Do you remember?” he whispers, like saying it out loud will be the wave that topples the sandcastle. 

“No,” Derek says, but his eyelashes are wet. “I don’t remember. But this place is haunted. It smells of grief and death.” He blinks, fixes his eyes on Stiles. “I live here?”

“You, uh, I don’t think so?” Stiles says. “I think you used to spend the night here sometimes, but the hunters came back and you sort of had to relocate. There’s an abandoned train depot just outside of town where you’ve set up camp, but–– I don’t know.” He chews his lip. Somehow it’s okay to dig up a dead body, but not check inside the house to make sure Derek actually has a mattress to sleep on. Stiles grits his teeth. He’s a horrible human being.

His wrist ends up being the one encircled by Derek’s fingers and he looks up. Derek palms his face, leans in and scents his neck. “None of that now,” Derek says and then tugs him up the steps.

“This was my family’s home?” Derek asks, when they’re inside. The sunlight penetrates through some of the windows that aren’t boarded up, but the house is still a death trap and Derek has to catch Stiles so he doesn’t splinter his face on the floorboards more than once. The second time he grabs Stiles’ elbow, he doesn’t let go.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “You and your family lived here over six years ago.” There’s no point hiding the truth, it’s clear Derek remembers nothing. He looks around with the expression of someone witnessing a tragedy that affects them nowhere apart from in their humanity. “You, your sister and your uncle survived the fire, everyone else died.”

Derek’s head snaps around and his eyes fix on Stiles. “Where are they now?”

“Laura is dead,” Stiles admits gently, “Peter is alive but he’s … damaged. I don’t know if he can be trusted.”

“Laura,” Derek sighs, not with recognition but with the sadness of someone lost anyway.

“The fire was deliberate?” Derek asks as he guides Stiles up the stairs. It’s darker there, but Derek needs no light. His arm curls around Stiles’ waist, holding on a bit too tight but Stiles doesn’t mention it.

“Yes,” he says, stepping around a hole in the floor. “How do you know?”

Derek shrugs, looking smaller somehow, in the burnt out shell of a past he can’t remember. “The way you’ve been tiptoeing around this. If it was an accident, you’d have told me sooner and from the way you’ve been depicting me, I’m guessing it was my fault.”

“You never actually told me about that,” Stiles says, stunned. _Of course,_ he thinks. _How could I have missed that?_

“Do you know how many died?” Derek asks. His hand is a vise on Stiles’ waist and he’s glad for once, for all the layers he wears.

“No, I don’t,” Stiles whispers, which is just adding insult to injury. All this time and he doesn’t even know about all the people Derek lost. 

They fall silent because they’ve stumbled into a room with a small mattress and a sleeping bag. There’s a pile of clothes that look fairly new, certainly not burnt, even though they’ll smell like damp and dust by now. It looks pathetic and Stiles suddenly very much doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to see this, doesn’t want to witness this with a new, softer Derek beside him. 

Derek looks defeated and sad and Stiles is about to suggest they go home, when Derek says, “I feel sorry for him. What if I don’t remember? What if I never remember any of them?”

It’s terrible. The way he looks and sounds as he says it and Stiles feels his throat seize up. “You will,” he says, tugging at Derek until he’s hugging him, right there surrounded by ghosts and demons. “We’ll fix this and you’ll remember.”

It’s quiet, muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. “I don’t know if I want to.”

Stiles holds him, squeezing tight with one arm around Derek’s shoulder, the other slung around his back. “You do,” Stiles tells him. “You’re nothing if not brave.”

And because Stiles can sometimes be brave too, he grabs the clothes the other Derek left behind. He’ll wash them, and maybe Derek’ll wear them and look less like someone Stiles wants to keep all to himself.

“Come on,” he says, starting to make his way down the stairs. “Let’s go home. Angst always makes me hungry.”

The trouble is, Stiles lost track of time. The Sheriff nearly drops the groceries when he walks through the front door and sees Stiles in the kitchen with Derek hopped on the counter.

“Stiles?” Dad says, cautiously looking Derek over, “something you need to tell me?”

He’s in cop-mode and scanning the scene for any signs Stiles might give him that this is a hostage situation. Stiles deliberately picks up the chef knife Derek had been slicing tomatoes with a few minutes ago, even though he feels his heart sink into his socks. How could he forget about _Dad_. 

“No,” Stiles says, rinsing the knife under the tap and putting it in the dish rack by Derek’s thigh. He’s aiming for relaxed, but by the way Derek tilts toward him, he knows he’s failing. “Well, probably yes, but not what you think.”

“Then you better start explaining,” Dad says, swinging the bags onto the kitchen table, “and fast.”

Stalling for time, Stiles washes his hands.

“Now,” Dad demands and when Stiles turns around, his eyes are still on Derek as if he’s a threat. That’s probably the first thing Stiles should clear up.

“I think you better sit down,” Stiles says, running a tired hand over his hair a couple of times.

“I’m perfectly fine standing.”

“Okay. Well,” Stiles gestures toward Derek but lacks his usual degree of flailing. “Something happened to Derek and he lost his memory.”

Dad’s eyes widen a bit and the anger in them recedes. “Are you hurt?” 

“I––” Derek startles, taken by surprise, “––not physically, no.”

“How far back does the memory loss go?”

“There’s nothing left,” Derek tells him. Dad’s eyebrows rise as that sinks in and his cheeks puff out on a heavy exhale. 

“All right,” he says, digging in a pocket for his phone, “I’ll call––”

“You can’t,” Stiles says and he flinches when Dad pins him with an angry glare.

“And why’s that?”

“Well you see, Dad,” Stiles begins but he shuts his mouth almost immediately because Dad looks _livid_.

“No, you know what?” Dad snaps, pointing at Stiles in what looks far too much like an image from a hallucination. “Don’t talk to me. Don't talk to me until what comes out of your mouth isn't another lie. I can't stand it anymore. I know you’ve been flying by the seat of your pants for _all sorts_ of things lately, but there is no way I will let you put this young man’s health, his _mind_ at risk, do you hear me?” He starts to flick through the numbers on his phone, movements jerky and abrupt like he only ever is when at his angriest. Stiles is so frozen in place with hurt, that he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop him. 

Derek moves around the table and has a gentle hand on Dad’s wrist before he can press dial. “It’s not like that,” Derek appeases. Dad looks from Stiles to Derek and back again, with a pointed glance at the hand on his arm until it drops.

“Then please enlighten me,” Dad says, his mouth pressed down in a thin, tense line.

In the five seconds it takes to wet his mouth enough to speak, Stiles looks at Derek and gets a small nod. This has always been the problem: It’s not his secret to tell. Even now, this Derek isn’t exactly in the position to give Stiles the go ahead. But he’s still inherently the same werewolf, so Stiles takes a deep breath and hopes the other Derek won’t maul him too badly for spilling the beans. 

“Just spit it out, Stiles,” Dad says, looking tired. “Succinctly.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says. He can be succinct. “Werewolves exist.” That gets him a blank stare and then his Dad’s face twists in the angriest, most disappointed expression Stiles never wants to see on his dad again. 

“If you can’t––“ he begins, turning toward the living room and lifting his phone again but Derek steps in his path. When Dad automatically looks up, Derek shifts his eyes.

“What?” Dad mumbles, looking a bit bewildered.

“Show him the rest, Derek,” Stiles says, his voice oddly seizing up. He doesn’t want to do this, but red eyes alone won’t convince Dad of anything. 

Opening his mouth, Derek lengthens his fangs and when Dad breathes harshly, he grows his nails into talons.

“Holy shit,” Dad says. He looks from Derek’s eyes to his mouth to his hands. “I think I’ll sit down now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “I think I’ll do the same,” and he starts to talk. 

“So,” Dad hazards, when Stiles is done explaining Scott, Matt and the Kanima, and how Derek ended up running down their road. “Laura H––and––” his eyes rest on Derek briefly, “–– her family? All––?”

“Werewolves, yes,” Stiles says. “And it’s okay, I filled him in.”

Dad frowns. “Kate Argent?” 

“God no. Hunter,” Stiles says, shuddering.

“Hunter,” Dad repeats, “as in––”

“Werewolf hunter, yeah.”

“And all this time,” Dad sighs, putting an elbow on the table and resting his forehead in his palm before looking up at Stiles again. “Every time you came home bruised, or late, or showed up at a crime scene, it was––”

“To protect Scott, and Lydia and the others, I guess,” Stiles says. He feels drained, empty, much like Dad looks. He doesn’t know how much more disappointment he can take.

“I need to think about this, Stiles. Obviously I can’t take any of it to the station. Jesus, do you even realize what kind of position this puts me in as Sheriff?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Stiles huffs, “it’s part of the reason why I never told you.”

Dad glances at Derek who’s all human again and remained silent during the whole thing. “Would it do any good to tell you to stay out of it?” He asks Stiles.

Because Dad deserves that much at least, Stiles takes a minute to think about it. Derek stares at him as if something Stiles doesn’t entirely understand depends on his answer. “No,” Stiles says in the end, looking Derek in the eye, “no, it wouldn’t.”

“Go to your room,” Dad says. “And don’t come out until I’m ready to talk to you.”

It should feel like relief that Dad doesn’t try to stop Derek from following Stiles up the stairs, but it really doesn’t.

“We need to do something,” Derek says when they’re back in Stiles’ room. “Whatever happened to me was for a reason and we’re just sitting around waiting for it to go wrong.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, flopping down on the bed and staring at his phone. Fuck it. He has no choice. He presses dial.

“Lydia?” he says, when the ringing stops. “It’s Stiles please don’t hang up.”

“Give me one good reason,” she says and Stiles breathes easier. There’s a low hum in the background like she’s in her car.

“Because I’m sorry I yelled at you and I’m sorry we all kept lying to you. I was trying to protect you from––” he glances at Derek and away again, “––basically everything. But I need you.”

“Oh, so now you _need_ me,” Lydia says. “Which suddenly makes it all right to decide I don’t need any more _protection_. Makes it all right to involve me.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Stiles pinches his eyes shut. “I need you to translate something.”

“Something Latin?” She asks. “Like the last time? When it was actually about _Jackson_ and no one told me?”

“It’s, I can’t tell you over the phone, it’s not safe.” _Trust me_ , he nearly says, but he has the sense to bite that back. “Come to my house tomorrow, if you want to help. If not, I understand, but I don’t have time to convince you right now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just hangs up. If she comes, she comes, if she doesn’t, well. There’s always Ms Morell as a last resort.

When calling Scott and Allison, and researching more Alpha pack ends up fruitless, Stiles goes to brush his teeth. He includes a shower in his bedtime ritual because he thinks he can smell smoke and ash on his clothes. It’s probably all in his head but Derek will sleep beside him again and Stiles won’t take the chance. The haunted look on Derek’s face when they’d left the ruins makes him scrub until his skin turns pink.

Dad is leaning against the wall in the hallway when Stiles steps out of the bathroom. “I don’t know what to think of all this, Stiles,” he says, “but I don’t like it.”

“Me neither, Dad. And I never wanted you involved, you’re all––” He can’t actually say it, they never talk about this, about the fear that overwhelmed him every day after Mom died when he saw Dad slipping on his Sheriff jacket. He learnt to suppress it, but it never went away. And now Stiles has done the same to Dad. He’ll always wonder if Stiles will come back after he walks out the door. It’s the one thing he tried to avoid. 

Dad gets it anyway. “I know,” he says, gently squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. “You too. But now that I know, you can stop lying and let me help.”

“You want to help?” Stiles asks, stepping back in surprise.

“Of course, but you’ll have to tell me how. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Neither do I right now, but I’m working on that. Hopefully Lydia will come around tomorrow and––”

“Lydia Martin?” Dad says, eyebrows rising.

“Yeah,” Stiles blushes faintly, “it’s not, I’m not, uh. She’s pretty much engaged to Jackson now, and I’m kind of okay with that.”

“All right,” Dad says, smiling faintly, “you let me know if I can do anything, I mean it. And for god’s sake, be safe.” He hesitates. “C’mere.” 

Stiles is pulled into a hug and he allows himself a few seconds of feeling absolutely at peace before he straightens. “I better––” He points over his shoulder toward his bedroom and Dad frowns, leans in and whispers,

“Are you okay in there with Derek, you’re not sharing your bed are you? Because I can––”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Stiles says quickly, because _werewolf hearing_. “We’re good.”

“If you say so,” Dad says and is that a _smirk_ he’s hiding? “Night, Stiles.”

“Night, Dad,” Stiles says, feeling lighter.

When they’re in bed, Derek’s nose ends up behind Stiles’ ear again. At first Stiles thinks it’s just more werewolf snuggling, but it feels hotter than before, like there’s intent this time. When Stiles feels the unmistakable sting of teeth on his earlobe, he has to muffle an undignified squawk into his pillow.

“Derek what are you––” he mumbles, breaking off into a gasp because Derek has latched onto his neck and is in the process of sucking what’s going to be an impressive lovebite to the surface. “Derek,” Stiles says again, because this is just –– no. “Stop.” It takes all of his willpower and then some to get the word out, fingers cramping as they clutch the sheets.

“You want this,” Derek says, barely lifting his mouth enough so Stiles feels his breath damp on his neck. He’s moving his hands down, gripping Stiles’ hips in a way there’s no mistaking what _this_ is. “And I want it too. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is,” Stiles says, trying to look at Derek over his shoulder but Derek seems to be in no hurry to let Stiles up, “that the _real_ you wouldn’t.” Until now Stiles has been very careful not to refer to the Derek he knows as the real one. He’d found it rude to imply that this Derek is somehow less. 

“I am the real me,” Derek says, nestling his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck. “I still function as a person, I still find things amusing and annoying,” he smirks and pries Stiles’ lip from between his teeth, “I just don’t have your Derek’s memories.”

“But they, _god_ ––” Stiles’ bottom lip catches on Derek’s thumb and it’s hard to _think_ never mind come up with reasons why this is bad. “They make such a difference in who you’ve become.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, shifting his weight and _holy crap_ so not accidentally rubs his erection against Stiles’ hip, sits up. “I _want_ this. So much so I can’t imagine the real me not wanting it. There’s no way I could keep my hands to myself when you smell so _good_. It was distracting before, but after your little talk out there with you dad...” Derek drops down, boxing Stiles in with his arms and leaning in to murmur, “you smell so _content._ I just want to make you _beg_.”

“Muh,” Stiles says, brain on the verge of shutting down. His hips press down into the mattress without his say so, and yeah, he’s hard. “Dad’s down the hall,” he mumbles, crawling to his knees, his arms trembling so hard they barely hold his weight.

“Then you better beg quietly,” Derek tells him, giving Stiles room to turn over but not backing away.

“Jesus fuck,” Stiles whispers, rubbing his face. “Tell me again why I’m holding this off?”

Derek’s grin is wide and bold. “I have no idea.” He leans up on his knees into Stiles’ space, his mouth warm and sweet and _just out of reach_.

“You’re teasing me,” Stiles mumbles, eyes on Derek’s mouth, “who’d have thought? Derek Hale a _tease_.”

“I’m just doing what you tell me to Stiles,” Derek says, his lip catching on Stiles’, “say the word and I’ll let you have anything you want.”

This is so not fair. He wants to reach for Derek so badly his hands itch with it. “You’ll hate me. When you have your memory back, you’ll _hate_ me, and I can’t–– I don’t want that.”

Derek sighs and sits back, looking resigned and like all this is mildly entertaining. “Okay,” Derek says, “I’ll back off, even though I can _tell_ that you don’t really want me to.”

“Sleep?” Stiles asks, disappointed and relieved all at once.

“Yeah okay,” Derek says. He holds up the comforter until Stiles slides underneath and then hesitates. “Can I still hold you?” Derek whispers. “It feels good.”

“Yeah,” Stiles tells him, his stomach fluttering. He holds up his arm so Derek can slide a hand over his ribs. Derek falls asleep almost immediately but Stiles ends up convincing himself for half an hour that jerking off with Derek right there is really not an option.

At some ungodly hour Stiles is too asleep to be able to read, his phone rings.

“Derek’s missing,” Isaac says by way of hello. 

“And you came to that conclusion at,” Stiles squints at the bright screen, pushes the phone back to his ear, “four in the morning?”

“Do you know anything?” Isaac demands, ignoring him completely. 

Derek lifts his head from where he’d been dozing, face buried against Stiles’ belly. There’s no sign of recognition on his face even though Stiles knows he can hear Isaac. He just tilts his head to the side in question. Stiles thinks fast.

“Are you alone?”

“If you’re asking about Peter, he’s here.”

Crap. Oh well, it would be impossible to keep Peter out of the loop anyway, and Stiles prefers meeting him when the others are around rather than Peter showing up in the dead of night or something. “Come to my house tomorrow. Or today I guess, but not now. I tried to get a hold of Scott again last night––”

“Don’t worry, I’ll call him,” Isaac says and hangs up. Stiles does his best not to feel irritated that Scott might answer for Isaac but not for him. He’s not very successful.

“Who was that?” Derek murmurs. Stiles stops glaring at his phone. Maybe Stiles should’ve covered this during his grand tour of the Hale house. He nestles himself back under the covers when Derek tugs at Stiles to make him lie down. “Isaac is your beta.”

“I have a pack?” Derek asks, eyes widening. 

Ah crap. “Yeah, you––there’s a few. I’ll explain when they’re here.” 

It’s pretty doubtful that Isaac will know anything useful, but––and Stiles is loathe to admit it––Peter might. Stiles rubs his face, flicks through the contacts on his phone. He passes Erica’s number and swallows hard. He tried to call her the night Jackson turned from Kanima to real wolf-boy but there’d been no answer. Warmth spreads over his back and Stiles looks up. Derek is touching his shoulder, says, “It’ll be all right.”

For years, Stiles carried around anxiety like a small but persistent weight in his chest. It’s been under control for a long time, but ever since a certain time spent being beaten on by an ancient Argent, the weight is heavier and closer to the surface.

“Come on,” Derek says, “c’mere.” 

He guides Stiles onto his side and settles against his back. They wait until the panic passes and Stiles falls asleep with Derek’s hand over his heart, breath warm against the back of his neck. 

“Your dad came in to check on you,” Derek says, as soon as Stiles opens his eyes, nearly three hours later.

“And he didn’t kick you out of bed?” Stiles mumbles, mouth slow with sleep. 

“He looked at me as if the only reason he wasn’t shooting me was because it’d wake you up,” Derek says. His hold on Stiles tightens a bit and then there is a slightly cool nose being pressed behind his ear. It feels nice.

“You don’t normally do this,” Stiles says, because it’s beginning to feel wrong not to.

“What?” Derek murmurs against the shell of his ear. “Touch you?”

Chewing on his lip, Stiles thinks about that, decides not to tell Derek about the way he used to ‘touch’ Stiles. “Touch anyone, really,” he says. “Not like this.”

“Do you mind?” Derek asks him, rubbing a hand down Stiles’ arm. It’s not an insistent touch, he’s not demanding anything, he’s just–– feeling. It’s oddly hesitant after last night but Stiles thinks he understands. This is nothing sexual, this is the wolf’s instinct.

“I don’t,” Stiles says, and then after a beat, he looks over his shoulder. “I like it.”

“Good,” Derek whispers, leaning a little closer. He noses along Stiles’ cheekbone, rubs his mouth briefly over Stiles’. It’s not a kiss, but it very well could be.

Stiles’ body starts to respond in ways that’d be really inappropriate if this is just a wolf thing. Rolling onto his back just enough so he can thread a hand through Derek’s hair and tug a little, he says, “The others will be here soon.” With a hum, Derek sniffs Stiles’ neck and down until his mouth is on one of Stiles’ collarbones. The frantic way his heart is beating can’t be a secret to Derek and he looks slightly flushed when he lifts his head. 

“They’re here,” he says and Stiles mumbles, “Of course they are,” because such is his luck, when the doorbell rings. Downstairs they hear Dad open the door and instantly something in Derek changes. He rumbles low in his chest and Stiles has two seconds to think, _oh shit,_ before Derek pounces off the bed.

“Dad!” Stiles yells, sprinting after him. “Get out of his w––”

At the front door, Jackson and Lydia are gaping open-mouthed, Dad has a hand in his hair, looking bewildered, worried and what seems like angry on Stiles’ behalf judging by the way his gaze seeks him out at the top of the stairs. 

Derek has his arms around Isaac, and by the way Isaac clings to him, that seems to be the only reason he’s still standing. “Pack,” Stiles hears Derek say when he comes down. “You’re pack.” He’s nuzzling Isaac’s neck like he’d been doing to Stiles. Instead of jealousy, Stiles feels a warm tendril of happiness worm its way through the wall where his anxiety sits. 

Isaac wraps his arms tighter around Derek’s waist, says, “I am. I am,” and holds on. Behind them Peter Hale is looks on, curious and intrigued but not at all surprised. 

Stiles jerks his chin toward the living room when Jackson catches his eye. Lydia and Dad follow him, leaving Derek, Isaac and Peter to it. 

“Son,” Dad says quietly, a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He looks unhappy and old. “I thought you two––”

“No,” Stiles tries not to feel a stab of hurt at the relief on Dad’s face, “and it’s not like that, it’s–– Derek doesn’t remember anything, but Isaac smells like, like family I guess.”

“Ah,” Dad says, glancing over his shoulder. Isaac looks blissed out, eyes closed, hands roaming over Derek’s back. He must’ve really craved this and never gotten it from the other Derek. “So you uh, smell like that to him too?”

“I––” Stiles looks at Dad and then at Lydia and Jackson perched awkwardly on the old couch. “I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I don’t know.”

They’re interrupted by a low growl and Isaac saying, “It’s okay, it’s Scott, he’s no threat.”

“He upset Stiles,” is what Derek says, positioning himself by Stiles’ side like an angry guarddog. Stiles makes an embarrassed noise while Scott at least looks vaguely guilty. 

“Allison won’t stay out of this,” Scott says to Stiles after he’s wormed his way past Derek.

“Of course she won’t,” Stiles tells him but he softens his tone. “Allison isn’t the type of girl to stay home and hide in her bedroom.”

“No,” Scott says with this mixture of pride and annoyance on his face, “I guess not.” And then after a blink, “But Peter Hale? Seriously?”

“I resent that,” Peter says pleasantly.

“All right,” Stiles raises his voice, because Lydia looks about ready to burst a vein. “Let’s move this into the living room and solve this shit.”

“Language,” Dad and Peter chastise at the same time which makes Isaac laugh. There’s a brief moment of guilt that flares up when Stiles realizes Isaac has probably been stuck with Peter all this time.

“So you know anything about this?” Stiles asks Peter after he fills everyone in on the little he knows. Peter looked shocked when Stiles mentioned the Alpha pack.

“I know _of_ them, yes, and very little at that,” Peter says calmly, eyes on Derek. “But what they’re doing here is beyond me.”

“Oh come on,” Jackson interrupts and for the first time since, well, ever, Stiles actually likes the guy, “you expect us to believe that? This is just another one of your mind games.” Beside him, Lydia is stoically not looking at Peter. Stiles can’t say he blames her.

“It’s not,” Peter says, holding out his hands, palms up. It’s probably meant to make him look harmless but Stiles just finds it more creepy. “I know they exist, I know there is some sort of hierarchy within the pack, but Beacon Hills is hardly a metropolis of supernatural activity. Until recently, that is.” His eyes zero in on Derek and Stiles has the inexplicable urge to go stand between them. It’s not like Derek can’t protect himself if it comes down to it. Which Stiles really hopes it won’t. “The Hales settled here decades ago to lead a peaceful life as and amongst humans. They deliberately separated themselves from the more ... werewolf-lifestyle. So we were taught only what we needed to know to function as humans. The rest were stories that watered down over the generations.”

“That actually makes sense,” Stiles grudgingly admits. “Is there any way that they might mean well?”

“They would’ve presented themselves if they did,” Peter says, sounding nearly regretful, “and not by taking our Alpha’s memory away.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Stiles says, straightening his shoulders. “Right. I think we have to assume they’re hostile and that they don’t know where Derek is, for now. I think we can also assume that he’s the main target which means I need you all to get out of here, but for goodness sake,” Stiles glares at Scott, “leave your phones on. Lydia, work your magic on the bestiary. Jackson, stay with her at all times. Scott––”

“I’m going to watch over Allison,” Scott says, as if Stiles was going to suggest anything else. “My mom’s pulling extra shifts so she’ll be safe.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles turns to Isaac. “Dude, I hate to stick you with the creepy uncle, but––”

Isaac grins as Peter balks, “We’ll see if we can sniff anything out and come back here tomorrow.”

“Great,” Stiles says, turning to the last person in the room. “Dad, please, _please_ , if you see anything with red eyes and fangs, run the other way.”

“I think that would be best,” Dad says, eyebrow raised. “And I’d advise you to do the same.”

“I have Derek,” falls out of Stiles’ mouth before he has a chance to prevent it and all eyes turn to him. “I mean––”

“You do,” Derek says simply, like that’s all there’s to it. Stiles turns bright red.

“All right, shoo, out, all of you. Do your homework and report back to me the moment you know more.”

“Who’s the Alpha now?” Peter says, amused, but he rises to his feet with the others and follows Isaac to the door. Derek gets up too, and holds Isaac to him for a long time. After a brief hesitation he pulls Jackson in too, and Stiles looks away when Jackson’s expression breaks open into a wave of need and relief. 

“You smell of grief,” Derek tells Peter quietly. “Grief and hate. You should let go.”

It’s impossible to describe what passes over Peter’s face and it’s gone as quickly as it came. Derek doesn’t hug him, but Peter gives him a parting nod, and leaves.

“I think we should go for a drive.” Dad narrows his eyes and looks like he’s about to protest so Stiles explains, “To see if Derek remembers anything.”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Dad begins, sighing. He passes a hand over his face. “But I suppose if Derek’s with you, you’re as safe as you’re going to be.”

“We’ll just go through downtown and pass by the school. And we’ll be home before dark,” Stiles tells him. Derek takes a step closer, Stiles can feel the heat of him against his back.

“I won’t let anything happen to him, sir,” he says and Stiles and Dad simultaneously roll their eyes.

“Fine,” Dad groans, “just be back before dinner, I’m cooking.”

“No hamburgers,” Stiles says, reaching for his keys and opening the front door, “and make sure there’s a salad.” He’s not sure, but he thinks Derek and Dad share a look of commiseration, which … isn’t as worrying as it should be. 

“Anything?” Stiles asks when they cruise down Main street. They’ve been driving around for a while, even passing the train depot. Derek had frowned briefly, but he didn’t ask so Stiles said nothing. 

Derek wound the window down in case there’s a scent to pick up and the breeze is ruffling his hair. “No,” he says, face half turned away from Stiles. His eyes are hooded and he looks content. Stiles thinks Derek is more whole without the memories. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“That’s fine. We’ll go by the school next. It’ll be empty anyway.”

“Do you play?” Derek asks when they walk up to the fence around the lacrosse field.

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugs. “Or I warm the bench at least. I played during the final, though.” He can’t stop the smile that tugs at his mouth.

“Were you good?” Derek asks and he’s smiling too, Stiles can tell, even though he doesn’t take his eyes off the bleachers. 

“I really wasn’t,” Stiles laughs, threading his fingers through the wire of the fence and yanking a little. “My goals were more accidental than anything.”

“I don’t believe you,” Derek softly says. He’s standing closer, not touching Stiles, but there’s a vibe he might want to. 

“Did you ever play?” Stiles asks, forgetting for a moment.

“I don’t know,” Derek murmurs, his breath warm against Stiles’ ear. He doesn’t sound upset, or annoyed. A bit wistful maybe. “You could show me,” he goes on, “see if I remember.”

Stiles never took his lacrosse gear out of the Jeep, so they scale the fence and even though it’s smelly, he puts on the pads and the jersey, handing the ball and stick to Derek. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, patting his chin guards, “you try and get past me, and I’ll tackle you.”

There’s no way this is going to end well, judging by the glint in Derek’s eye but Stiles feels a thrill of anticipation. He’s not afraid, he plays with Scott who doesn’t always check his speed and strength as much as he should, when it’s just the two of them.

Derek weighs the ball in his palm, his fingers curling around it as he looks down. He smirks, checks their surroundings out of the corners of his eyes and then he’s a blur. Two seconds later, he’s pinning Stiles face first to the ground.

“I scored,” he says, “and I tackled you. Now what is it you were supposed to do?”

“I’m supposed to tackle _you_ ,” Stiles huffs, Derek a dead weight on his back, “now gerroffme.”

“Mmm,” Derek hums, far too pleased with himself, and then he’s gone.

If Stiles knows Derek, and he’s starting to think he just might, he knows what comes next. Derek will slow himself down, so Stiles can see what he’s doing. Show off a bit, doing the same move he just did.

So when Derek gives him a wicked grin, Stiles is ready. Instead of running for Derek –– there’s no chance he’ll catch him –– Stiles sprints for the goal, colliding hard with Derek when he gets there. The crash is painful, but not more than during practice and Derek rolls when they hit the ground, making sure he takes the impact.

“Nice,” Derek says, a bit breathless, which he shouldn’t be. Stiles is breathing hard already. “I think you underestimate yourself.”

“I don’t,” Stiles laughs, “usually I’m the only one believing in me.” It’s meant to be a joke, but Derek’s face goes all solemn. He rolls over until he’s bracketing Stiles with his elbows, their noses nearly touching.

“I believe in you,” Derek quietly tells him. “I know you will find a way to fix me. I don’t doubt that for a second.”

When they rolled, Stiles’ legs had fallen open and his knees bracket Derek’s hips, whose weight is a heavy comfort. It’s also pretty clear why he’s slightly breathless.

“Derek,” Stiles says, “I––”

“I know.” Derek traces Stiles’ bottom lip with his thumb and then he’s on his feet, holding out a hand. Stiles uses it to lever himself up and stands there, blinking stupidly.

“Um. So, did that bring back any memories?”

The right corner of Derek’s mouth lifts ruefully and he shakes his head. “But we have an hour or two before it’s dark. Can we stay out here for a while? I think I like being outside.”

“Of course you do,” Stiles says and he turns toward the benches, Derek falling in step with him, nudging his shoulder.

“We good?” Derek asks.

“We’re good,” Stiles says, ducking his head to hide his blush.

To explain away the grass stains on their clothes, Stiles carries in his lacrosse gear and dumps it in the laundry room while Dad gives them a long meaningful look. He doesn’t say anything, Stiles is thankful for small mercies these days, but makes a point of sitting between them at the dinner table.

“So anything?” He asks while they eat pork chops and applesauce. ( _Not a vegetable, Dad,_ which earned him a united _Shut up, Stiles,_ from Derek and Dad.) Stiles shakes his head and the silence that follows is a bit awkward, but Stiles supposes it could be worse.

Derek and Stiles start on the dishes when Dad fetches a beer.

“Well,” Dad says, when he comes back into the kitchen, “now I’ve seen it all.” Stiles laughs and ignores the clench in his chest when Dad pops the cap off a beer and hands it to Derek with a reluctant smile. 

“I doubt that,” Stiles says. He dries the pans and Dad settles in the living room, feet on the coffee table while Derek perches on the counter slowly drinking his beer. They don’t talk and the silence that was awkward earlier, turns companionable. He’ll miss this, Stiles thinks and his fingers tighten on the dish towel. He doesn’t want to give this up. He doesn’t want Derek to become that hurt, angry shadow of himself again. Stiles wants to hold on to this. And he wants all of it.

His heartbeat must be rising or something, because Derek leans across and gives the towel a little tug. He looks at Stiles and then slowly lifts his eyes toward the ceiling. Stiles takes a deep breath and carefully folds the towel over the sink before he nods and Derek follows him to the stairs.

“One moment,” Dad says, rising to his feet and Stiles stops on the bottom step with an uh-oh feeling. Dad’s lips are white as he presses them together and for a second he looks like he’s about to say, _never mind_ , but he steels himself. “Derek can keep staying in your room under one condition I better not have to spell out.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles squawks, but Derek’s already nodding, saying, “Of course, sir,” smiling in a way Dad will never, _ever_ buy, oh my god Stiles is going to _die_.

“Good,” Dad tells them, turning away, mumbling under his breath and for one brief second Stiles can’t _believe_ they got away with that. He’s rounding on Derek to give him his best what-the-shit face when Derek practically chokes on his own tongue.

“What?” Stiles hisses, craning his neck to see Dad disappear in the kitchen. “What is it?” 

Derek violently shakes his head and jabs Stiles’ kidney, prodding him ungently up the stairs. “What was that about?” He demands when they’re in his room.

“He said he hopes I’m better at safe sex than lying,” Derek tells Stiles and yeah. Forget the Alphas. Stiles would like to die right here and now, please. Only, Derek is suddenly up in his space. “So, that basically means we have his permission.”

“It really doesn’t,” Stiles says, backing away until his knees collide with the bed and his ass hits the mattress. It doesn’t stop Derek’s advance. “And he’s still _downstairs_.” 

“I know I said I’d back off,” Derek says, the hand he brings up to Stiles’ cheek trembling slightly. “But I can tell how much you want this. Just, it’s so hard stay away. Tell me to back off one more time, and I promise I’ll never come near you again.”

The thing is, Stiles doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want having to go through his days with Derek just out of reach now that he’s had a taste of what this could be like. There’s another part of him too; the part that found himself in Gerard Argent’s basement, really fearing for his life for the very first time, despite everything he’d been through so far. Even after facing angry werewolves and a kanima, after staring down the barrel of a gun, it’d been that moment he’d had the serious thought, _oh shit, I’m gonna die_. It’d been the cold, emotionless eyes of an old man, a _human_ , that had Stiles mourning all the things he’d never get to do.

 _So what if you die in this fight,_ a little voice in his mind whispers, _what if the Alphas come for you tomorrow, what will you regret then?_ He feels a heavy sadness in his bones, mainly because he’s not strong enough to refuse anymore. 

“I should,” Stiles says, trying to catch Derek’s eye but Derek is looking at Stiles’ mouth. “I should say no. But I don’t think I can.”

When Derek does meet his gaze, there’s a brief flash of something so young and vulnerable, before he says, “Thank fuck,” and falls on Stiles like he’s diving off a cliff. Stiles follows him right over, searching the thrill of the fall, consequences be damned. 

At some after-school party, Stiles had gotten fairly drunk on vodka. When the alcohol stung his cut lip, and Mindy Lawrence offered to kiss it better, Stiles had thought, _fuck it, I’m not dying a virgin._ They’d ended up on top of a stack of coats in a spare bedroom, Stiles breathing hotly against her neck as she showed him where to put his fingers before jerking him off slowly.

It isn’t anything at all like Derek’s mouth on Stiles, the scruff on his cheeks leaving delicious heat wherever it catches Stiles’ skin. Somewhere in the distance he hears Dad shout out that he’s been called into work for an hour or two but it doesn’t even register. Derek kissing Stiles feels like something taking root that just keeps growing. From there it escalates, until Stiles is kneeling on top of his comforter, watching Derek, stretched on his too small bed, peeling back his boxer-briefs. They stick wetly to his uncut cock and Stiles doesn’t think he could say a word if his life depended on it. 

“Now you,” Derek says, holding out a reaching hand and the words snap Stiles from the ringing silence that had filled his head. All thoughts come flooding back in all at once, rising like a hurricane, spinning him out of the eye of the storm. Next his clothes are off, then he’s on his back, then Derek has his mouth on one of Stiles’ nipples, then his orgasm bursts from him, sudden and far too soon, over Derek’s knuckles.

“M’sorry,” Stiles mumbles, dazed and embarrassed, trying to hide his face in the pillow even though he’s on his back and his neck just won’t crane that way.

“Don’t be,” Derek soothes, “you’re so amazing.” He says it to Stiles’ hipbone, like it has done something quite extraordinary and Stiles threads his fingers through Derek’s soft, soft hair. “I want more,” Derek tells his hip, “can I do more?”

“You can do anything you like,” Stiles tells him, his embarrassment ebbing away with the aftermath of his orgasm. It helps to see Derek trembling and, when he lifts himself up a little, leaking like he’s about to come himself, even though Stiles hasn’t even touched him yet. “But I want to touch you too.”

“Later,” Derek mumbles, distracted, lips catching on the dark trail of hair on Stiles’ belly. He eats the come off Stiles’ stomach, suckles everywhere apart from where he’s still too sensitive and then Stiles finds himself dizzy and flipped over. 

“What are––” he begins but then Derek is spreading his cheeks, resting his forearm over the curve of Stiles’ ass so he can hold it open, and his breath is hot and unbelievably intimate when he says,

“You said anything, you said I could do––” He mouths at Stiles’ hole like he can’t help himself and Stiles shouts out.

“Oh god, yes, anything, anything you want.” There’s a sigh, long and content and then he feels Derek rest his cheek against Stiles ass and lick slowly over his hole. It’s a feeling he could never describe, not that he’d ever want to because there is no way he’s telling anyone about this, ever. 

It’s not even what’s most amazing. It’s how Derek is just slowly dragging his tongue over Stiles, like he has all the time in the world, like this is exactly where he wants to be, as if this is all he wants to do and there is no end goal or ulterior motive at play at all. He licks, he breathes, he licks again. Every once in a while Stiles feels Derek’s fingers tighten on his ass cheeks, or he’ll feel a small, satisfied hum, but apart from that there is nothing, for long long minutes, nothing at all but the soft-slow drag of Derek’s tongue. 

And it just goes on and on and on to the point that Stiles doesn’t understand why he’s lightheaded until he hears his own broken, hitching breaths. “More,” he moans because he’s starting to ride a crest that’s giving him fear of heights. “Derek _please_.” He’s not even aware of how loose and wet he is, how Derek’s tongue must’ve opened him up until he feels Derek slide a finger inside. Stiles bites at the pillow until his teeth hurt and flickering stars spark behind his eyelids.

“Does that hurt?” Derek asks and he sounds _wrecked_. Any other time Stiles would’ve wanted to see that look on him but right now he can’t care, he can’t do anything beyond sob into his pillow and, “No, it’s not enough, it’s not _enough_.” 

There’s the pressure of Derek’s forehead against Stiles’ lower back, ragged breathing and a desperate noise and then there’s more pressure, another finger being pushed into Stiles, making him moan, loud and obscene until Derek hooks his fingers. Then Stiles loses his voice completely, loses all coherency, can’t exist beyond the alternating pressure in him and against the mattress. 

When Derek’s mouth is on him again, first sucking on his tight balls and then his hole, nowhere near as slow and leisurely as it started out, but wet and insistent, pushing at Stiles to just give up, give in, Stiles does, violently. With a shudder that doesn’t start or seem to end anywhere, this full body thing he has absolutely no control over. Derek’s saying things, talking him through it, but Stiles is unable to process information right now, can’t even begin to understand anything but the hands on his back, on his shoulders, turning him over, holding him close, gentling him through the aftershocks that leave him destroyed and exhausted.

“That was unbelievable,” Stiles mumbles when he manages to reboot his brain and Derek chuckles against his neck. “Gimme a sec or like a hundred years and I’ll reciprocate.”

“No need,” Derek says, voice indistinct against Stiles’ skin. It’s still too hard to comprehend anything but a general feeling of _gnnnn_ so Stiles lifts his head and frowns.

“Wha––” he manages and then he feels the wet patch his calf is resting in. “Did you––?”

Derek nods.

“But––” Stiles begins.

“I know,” Derek says.

“I didn’t even touch––”

“I _know_ ,” Derek says again and Stiles laughs a bit, is wrestled into the bed for his trouble. “I’ll kiss you,” Derek threatens, “if you don’t shut up.” He’s grinning though, his eyes bright and full of mischief. Stiles vaguely thinks about how he should count those smiles. Treasure them for when they run out.

“Not with that mouth,” Stiles tells him and he laughs. He’ll feel guilty and awful about this some other time. Right now he has Derek in his arms, laughing against Stiles’ chest like he wouldn’t want it any other way. He’ll hold on to this for as long as he can.

Derek disappears for a while and comes back with breath tasting of mint. “Did you use my toothbrush?” Stiles asks him. Derek says nothing, just grins and begins to kiss Stiles’ neck. “Because that’s gross,” Stiles complains, smacking Derek’s back. He doesn’t really mean it, already goes boneless as Derek sucks on his earlobe. “I had plans you know,” Stiles confides in him, wrapping his legs around Derek’s waist and clinging a little, holding him tight so he can confess in Derek’s ear. “They involved my mouth.” 

He can feel Derek’s lips stretch into a smile, and then Derek shifts, pressing into Stiles’ hip. “You were saying?” he asks at the same time Stiles goes, “Oh wow.”

So maybe he spends a bit too long exploring every inch of Derek, because by the time he wraps his mouth around him and tongues the silky-soft foreskin, Derek’s eyes are red and he’s trying very hard not to claw at Stiles’ sheets. 

It’s to be expected, really, that Stiles should end up as the little spoon again, after. They must’ve dozed off because his phone tells him it’s midnight.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks and Stiles snorts at him. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just, those are words I never thought I’d hear coming out of your mouth?”

“No?” Derek pushes up a bit, leans over and traces the shape of Stiles’ top lip and it tickles. “It’s clear every other thought stumbles out of your mouth whether you want it to or not, so it’s the ones in between I’m interested in. Come on, be honest. What are you thinking?”

“That,” Stiles swallows dryly, “that I like this, that I liked _it_ very much. That I’ll be sad when it’s gone. And that’s probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever said.”

“It doesn’t have to be gone,” Derek murmurs, rubbing his stubble over Stiles’ cheek as he shifts and levers his weight on top of Stiles, pressing him face first into the bed so Stiles’ breath leaves his lungs with a huff. His cock sits heavy and pulsing between Stiles’ ass cheeks and Stiles goes hot all over. “Are you going to––”

“No,” Derek says quietly and, if Stiles isn’t imagining things, regretfully. “I wouldn’t take that from the real me. The one who’ll remember.”

There’s nothing Stiles can say to that, so he pushes up against Derek, works a hand between himself and the bed. 

“I don’t want it to end,” Stiles thinks Derek says, right before he spills warm and thick over Stiles’ back. He slips a thumb inside Stiles and presses down, says “It doesn’t have to end,” and Stiles contracts around his finger, comes into his own fist.

Blearily, Stiles thinks, _yes it does,_ but doesn’t say it, wants to keep feeling Derek on him and in him. And maybe he’s wrong, maybe _this_ is him at his most selfish. He blocks it out, all of it, shuts the door on everything invading the space between them and turns, kisses Derek until he’s breathless.

Slowly, Derek falls asleep. His breathing evens out and he relaxes completely as Stiles combs his fingers through Derek’s hair. For once in his life, Stiles doesn’t want to fall asleep. For once in his life, there is nothing waiting in his dreams that can be better than this.

There’s a soft knock on his door the next morning and Stiles blinks his sticky eyelids open to Dad peering into his room. “I should go into work,” Dad quietly says. Derek’s eyes are still closed, his hand heavy and relaxed on Stiles’ chest. Stiles tries not to flush pink but fails. “I can stay home though, if you need me.”

“No,” Stiles says, not bothering to keep his voice down because he knows Derek is no longer asleep. “I know you’ll be safer at work and I won’t have to worry about you.”

“Stiles,” Dad begins, ominous, but Stiles stops him.

“I know, Dad. I know, just––the moment something’s up or I know more, I’ll call, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dad says after a pause. “Okay,” and then, with a smirk, “morning, Derek.”

“Morning, Mr Stilinski,” Derek mumbles, his ears turning pink. It’s a shame really, that there’s a chance Derek won’t remember this. The possibilities to make fun of a shy Derek are infinite. 

“Oh and by the way,” Dad sticks his head back through the door. “Peter Hale and the Isaac kid are in the living room, looking stuff up on a laptop.”

“Okay,” Stiles tells the closing door, mind boggled. He must’ve been really out of it if he didn’t hear the doorbell and he swallows thickly when he remembers why he was so tired. “Did you know they were here?”

Derek pauses his nuzzling to hum an affirmative and then sets to nosing at Stiles’ jaw again. 

“We’re not–– _ahh_ ––we’re not doing that with them downstairs,” he hisses, going a bit cross-eyed when Derek’s teeth close around the flesh of his shoulder. 

“Why not?” Derek hums, sending a thrill down Stiles’ spine. “I can tell if they’re coming upstairs.”

“Because they’ll _know_ ,” Stiles says, closing his eyes when Derek licks at tender skin on his neck. He mouths at it and it stings a bit, but the ache eases quickly, turns into a tingle and then a full-flared burn as Derek sucks on last night’s mark.

“We can always shower together,” Derek says, lifting up and looking smug because all Stiles can do is pant at him. “They won’t know anything and then you might not care where my mouth’s been.”

“Oh for––” Stiles rolls out of bed and drags Derek to the bathroom.

_“Stop fidgeting, you’re making me nervous,”_ Lydia says in the Skype window. Stiles watches as she scrolls through the bestiary on his laptop, admittedly a little unnerved at his cursor moving without him touching the mouse. _“I’m not going to click on your porn collection.”_ Lydia doesn’t even blink as she says it and Stiles mumbles an apology. He’s trying to read along while she slowly scrolls down but only every fifth word or so makes any sense to him.

On the bed behind him, Derek and Isaac are still cuddling –– he doesn’t care how often Derek calls it bonding –– with Isaac practically asleep as he’s wrapped around Derek. Peter sighs softly, paging through a book Stiles will be returning to the library as soon as he can.

“Find anything yet?” Stiles asks and Lydia scowls.

 _“This isn’t just archaic Latin, which is hard enough to translate as it is, but it’s about supernatural creatures, Stiles.”_ He’s about to apologize again when she holds up a neatly manicured finger. _“But, what I did get so far, is that this Alpha pack is some sort of werewolf royalty.”_

“What?” Stiles says. He looks over at Derek but he just shrugs mildly. Of course it doesn’t mean anything to him. Stiles wonders if the other Derek knows anything about this.

 _“Here,”_ Lydia says, highlighting some text on the screen. _“It says ‘pro Lupus et Rege’, which means ‘for Wolf and King’ and then in the next line it says ‘pro Rege et Lege’ which means ‘for King and Law’. I take it this means they are some sort of royalty who also practice werewolf law.”_

“This… is not good. This is so not good,” Stiles says sitting back and breathing out harshly. If his hair was longer, he’d be pulling it. He jumps to his feet. “Crap. I need––” Stiles hurries to his walk-in and drops down, rummaging through the comic book box which hides the lead-lined tin of mountain ash.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, sitting up slightly. “What’s the matter? Why is this bad?”

“Oh Derek, I don’t have time to explain it all. Just––” Pulling out his phone, Stiles quickly shoots a text to Allison. _Could use some POINTED CONVERSATION at my house_ , he types, throwing his phone on the bed and scanning his room, making sure he has what he needs. “You made some less than stellar decisions in the past couple of months and if they’re coming for you, if they’re coming for _all of us_ , jesus, this couldn’t be worse.” He’s about to run down stairs when Derek stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“If I’ve done wrong, I have to face the consequences.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, putting a hand on his stubble-rough cheek, rubbing his thumb once beneath Derek’s eye. “I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But I’ve got the feeling that won’t help any of us at all.” Derek won’t let go, won’t look away. Stiles sighs. “I’m gonna line the house with mountain ash. Hopefully they can’t pass it either. We’ll hole up in here until we come up with something. 

“Isaac,” he adds, sticking his head back into the bedroom, “call Scott and tell him to stay as far away from here as possible, will you? When I’m done, I’m calling Dad so he comes home. I want, I want him here.” His voice tapers off a bit toward the end of that sentence but then he raises his voice again. “Lydia, stay where you are and get Jackson to come to you until you hear from us, okay?”

Lydia’s mouth tightens marginally and for a second Stiles sees her confidence fall away. “It’s fine,” Stiles says, and he means it. “I get it, I really do. Just, be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” Lydia says and her image blinks out. 

“Hurry,” Derek tells him. He tightens his hold on Stiles’ shoulder, kisses him softly. 

“I will,” Stiles says hoarsely and rushes down the stairs. 

“Believe, believe, believe,” Stiles mumbles to himself, walking the perimeter of the house in an awkward bent over waddle. “Come on, come on.” The mountain ash feels warm as he tips the last of it in the palm of his hand. “Deep breath, this is it.” 

The last of it drops to the ground and Stiles feels something snap into place at the exact same time he hears an earth shattering howl coming from inside the house. The second that Stiles stands frozen to the ground, turns out detrimental. By the time Derek has jumped out of the bedroom window, yelling, “Stiles! Step into the circle, _now_ ,” it’s too late.

There’s a hand closing around Stiles’ throat, sharp nails digging into the thin layer of skin covering his jugular. “Stiles Stilinski,” a male voice says against his ear. It’s a soft and melodic voice the way only foreigners can sound. “I do believe the pleasure is all mine.”

Derek roars, his canines lengthening but the Alpha having hold of Stiles tuts. “Freya,” he says and a tall woman with long blond hair steps into Stiles’ view, “do something about all that noise, would you?”

She lifts a hand and Derek falls silently to his knees, his face screwed up in pure and absolute agony.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Stiles demands. He kicks out, feels the talons dig into his throat, doesn’t care at all. A hand comes down on his shoulder, claws piercing skin there too. “Let him go, stop, _stop it_ ,” Stiles yells when Derek clutches his head and moans. He lashes out, tries to elbow the alpha in the gut, but it’s no use. The nails dig deeper into his skin, and he knows on some level that this should worry him because this is how the whole mess with Jackson started, but he doesn’t care. “What are you _doing_ ,” he screams.

The guy laughs, lets go of his neck and shoulder but wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist and lifts him off the ground easily. “Feisty, this one, isn’t he,” he says. “Relax, she’s just letting him remember.” Stiles feels a breath on his neck, and then softly against his ear, “Everything, slowly, one memory at a time.”

“Laura,” Derek chokes out and then he goes still, curled up into a tight ball, where he’s kneeling in front of Stiles’ house, just inside the circle of mountain ash. Stiles goes limp.

“Derek.” His voice is gravelly but that’s okay, he doesn’t know how to go on anyway. Doesn’t know if this Derek remembers the past couple of days, the nights, _anything_. He shouldn’t give the two alphas any more ammunition, so he keeps quiet, blinks back the burn behind his eyelids and pinches his mouth shut. 

“Convenient isn’t it,” Freya says, “the way he’s trapped them in the house.”

“Very,” the guy agrees, shifting his hold on Stiles. He begins to walk away. Stiles can see the moment Derek lifts his head, how he tries to crawl forward but the barrier connects with a sharp crackle and Derek draws back. It’s the old Derek again, looking angry and unforgiving, preparing for a fight like that’s the only thing in life. Isaac is there, helping Derek to his feet, Peter outlined in the shadow of the doorway. The alpha turns around and sets off toward the woods.

“Protect Dad,” Stiles says, before his house disappears from view. He doesn’t raise his voice, knows Derek can hear him.


	3. Chapter 3

They’ve made themselves at home at the Hale house, which would make Stiles laugh if he didn’t feel so close to crying. Wodan, the alpha whose claw-marks Stiles will now carry around for the rest of his life –– however long or short it may be –– bends down in front of the chair Stiles has been tied up in.

“My what big eyes you have,” Stiles says and Wodan laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, actually. He’s a good looking guy, in his late thirties, maybe early forties. From the way Freya and Wodan look so much alike, Stiles suspects they’re siblings. “So is this the bit where you eat me up?”

“Stiles,” Wodan says, his voice lilts on the _l_ , “I’m not going to eat you. I’m not even going to hurt you.”

“Really?” Stiles sneers, his left knee bouncing up and down. No matter how hard he tries, it won’t stop. “My bleeding shoulder would beg to differ.”

Freya steps into view, carefully wiping dust off her dress. Stiles can’t really fault her there, the Hale house is a dusty place. “He could’ve done much worse,” she says, in the same accent as Wodan. He’s not about to disagree with that.

“Then why am I here?” 

Wodan smiles. “Leverage,” he says. 

There’s a bit of dust or ash tickling Stiles’ forehead and he desperately wishes he could scratch it. He wrinkles his nose instead, contorting his face in an attempt to get rid of the itch. “What kind of leverage.”

“To make Derek Hale more compliant. He’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”

“How?” As far as Stiles knows, he’s the only one who can break the circle, since he made it. Then again, Deaton never really went into much detail on that part of it. Scott and Jackson won’t be able to break it, but maybe Lydia or Allison could. “And what do you want him to do? Are you going to kill him?”

“We’re not here to kill Derek or you, Stiles,” Freya says and then she adds something in a language Stiles doesn’t understand but seems to be made up of consonants only. Wodan doesn’t look away from Stiles, but his mouth lifts in a smile again.

“May as well,” he says, “it might work out in our favor. I like this one.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Stiles grouches, uneasy.

“We’ve been watching Derek since we heard the news of his sister’s death,” Freya says, turning her cold blue eyes on Stiles. “We didn’t like what we saw.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, his stomach churning around what feels like a brick. “Can’t blame you there.”

“The Alpha pack brings justice to werewolves across the world,” Wodan cuts in. “Since human law enforcement can’t hold us. We’ve been around for centuries, our rule is ruthless but just. We pass a judgment of freedom or death, there is no in between. It generally keeps packs in line.”

“There’s more than just the two of you?” Stiles asks, keeping his eyes wide open as if that’ll somehow hide the hopelessness caving in his chest. They’d be hard pressed overcoming these two. It’s very much to be doubted anyone will come out alive if there’s more.

“We’re just a delegation,” Wodan explains and the fear settles somewhat. Judging by the smirk on Freya’s face, it doesn’t settle quietly.

“Derek Hale was a liability,” Freya says, “and we were about to kill him and the dark haired boy when we found something interesting.”

“What?” Stiles says, intrigued despite another lurch of panic in his stomach. He doesn’t doubt for a second Scott’d be dead by now if these two wanted him to be. 

“Wolves are recruited into our pack based on talent,” Wodan tells him, shifting so he sits down cross-legged in front of Stiles chair. “Most people who are born as werewolves or who are bitten, are just that. Every once in a while, something rare blooms. Something valuable. 

“Wolves born of or bitten by the Hales can take pain and even heal wounds,” Wodan goes on, and Stiles thinks _holy crap,_ just when Wodan’s smile turns wicked. “And some, like Freya, have magic. Like you.”

There’s no way they don’t notice the spike of fear but Stiles hides it as well as he can, rolls his eyes anyway. “I don’t want to be a werewolf,” he says. There’s no lie this time. He doesn’t think there was a lie last time either. Back then it’d just been the desire to be alive overcoming his desire to remain human and be dead.

“We know that,” Freya says, dipping her head once in acquiescence, “and we have very strict rules against forcing the bite upon people.” 

“We just thought you might be a little more willing if we told you we plan on recruiting Derek. He will come if you do. And from what we’ve seen, we think the same goes for you. You’d be an asset, Stiles. You are a born leader.”

“This is–– weirdly flattering, but the answer’s still no. For one, you’ve got me _tied to a chair_ and for another, what makes you think Derek would be willing to do anything for me?”

“Ah,” Freya says, and her smile turns her face into something gorgeous and ethereal, “that was the beauty of the spell I cast.” She’s looking at Stiles, eyes intent, like she’s gauging him for his response. He doesn’t get why his palms turn moist and sweat starts to bead on his top lip, but he finds himself leaning forward anyway, heart hammering. 

“It wiped the slate of Derek’s mind clean,” she pauses, for dramatic effect Stiles suspects but goddamnit, it’s working. “To make him run toward that which is most precious to him.”

Stiles’ heartbeat rings hollow in his ears. “I found him minutes away from my house,” he says weakly.

“Exactly,” Wodan says. 

Something else occurs to Stiles, his brain connecting dots in the background, possibly to avoid having to deal with the revelation of being precious to Derek, jesus christ. “You have Erica and Boyd,” he says.

“We do.”

“What happens to them?”

“What’s it worth to you?” Wodan asks, but his smile is mischievous. This more than anything, puts Stiles at ease, just a little. He huffs with put-upon annoyance.

“I’ll make you the world famous Stilinski peach cobbler,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. 

“If Derek accepts them back, they are at his mercy,” Freya says. “If not, they die.”

“Okay,” Stiles gulps. “But, why didn’t you just recruit them? They were bitten by a Hale.”

Wodan’s mouth tightens briefly and his eyes narrow, considering. Stiles guesses he doesn’t want to share this particular bit of information, but he has a feeling Wodan will anyway, to gain his trust. 

“They renounced their alpha. Any and all _unusual_ gifts that came with his bite vanished.”

Stiles breathes out slowly. So that means they won’t take Scott either.

He doesn’t really want to think about this part, but it’s clearly going to happen. “When Derek goes with you, what happens to the pack?”

“Derek remains their alpha,” Wodan says easily. “He’d return here every once in a while, his second will be in command when he’s gone.”

“Not Peter?” Stiles says. “The pack won’t––” He stops talking because for the first time since he was taken, Wodan’s eyes turn hard.

“Peter will die for his crimes,” he says. “That is non-negotiable. He can’t remain alive and unsupervised after all he’s done.”

Stiles’ mind is reeling, and not just with the idea of Peter being put to death (again), but with the sudden understanding that this is a _negotiation_. 

“Will you untie me?” Stiles asks, at the exact same time Freya lifts her head and says,

“They’re here.”

The remnants of the door crashes clean of its hinges just as Wodan slices the duct tape on Stiles’s wrists in two. Stiles jumps to his feet and holds out his hands aching with pins and needles. 

There’s a menacing growl, claws scraping over wood and when Stiles turns toward the door, he’s standing between the two alphas and an enormous black wolf. It’s causing Stiles physical pain not to say something along the lines of _down boy_ , but on some instinctual level, he knows he should defer to his own alpha in this case, that Derek needs to make a good impression. So he lifts his hands higher, the sting of blood rushing back into his fingers brutal but he ignores it, and waits until Derek looks from Wodan and Freya to him. He bares his neck and looks to the side, lifting his arms away from his body a bit, showing how he’s uninjured. Derek makes a low snarling noise and calms a little.

“I was right,” Freya says behind him but Stiles doesn’t get the chance to ask what she means. Behind Derek the entire pack comes running in, Jackson, Isaac and Scott all looking fuzzy. Allison’s there, with Lydia and someone else hidden in shadow. Stiles doesn’t have time to work out who it is because then Peter wanders in, last and in no hurry, and just like that it all slots into place. 

Stiles smiles and Derek’s head tilts curiously to the side. With a small nod that says _trust me_ and a heart heavy with _maybe for the last time_ , Stiles schools his expression before he turns to face the alphas.

“So here’s how it’s going to go,” he begins, peeling the duct tape off his wrists, which _ow_. “You’re gonna return Boyd and Erica in one piece and then you’re going to take Peter off our hands. As the addition to your pack, I mean.” Behind him Peter makes a noise, but Stiles doesn’t even look at him, just holds up a hand and Peter shuts up. “You’ll have your healing Hale and you can keep an eye on him without having to kill him. 

“Then, you are going to leave. My buddy Derek here, promises not to bite anymore wayward teenagers, to get this house fixed up or torn down and rebuilt, we’ll need to get some contractors involved for that part.” Derek huffs through his nose and shakes his large wolf-head but Stiles ignores him too. “I will send you a report on how we’re doing in six months, and once every two years you send a delegation to check and make sure we’re holding up our end of the bargain.”

“I don’t see how this is a _bargain_ ,” Wodan says, but his eyes are glinting. 

“No?” Stiles asks. He pulls off the last bit of duct tape, his wrists angry red and pitifully hairless, while his heart hammers wildly. It’s no secret to any of the super human ears in the room but Stiles hangs on to his fake confidence, thinks if he believes in it hard enough, it might become real. “I think you’re getting exactly what you wanted. You want to stay under the radar, your goal is to bring justice to werewolf-kind and at the same time strengthen your pack. 

“You could’ve wiped us all out months ago, picked us off one by one when we were all divided. Instead you waited until most of the crap had passed and we’d built a careful truce amongst ourselves. You picked up Boyd and Erica so they couldn’t wreak havoc elsewhere and I’m convinced they are safe and mostly comfortable. If you take Peter, no one has to die.” 

_Please,_ he thinks, _please don’t take Derek_. It’s stupid in a way, because chances are he won’t even be part of this pack anymore, once Derek knows the truth. Precious or not, Stiles overstepped some serious boundaries.

Stiles does look over at Peter this time, whose eyes are wide but already calculating. He has to know he has no choice, that this is maybe even an opportunity because none of the pack will trust him, ever. 

“I feel like breaking our code just this once,” Wodan muses, eyes on Stiles, “give you the bite and keep you for myself. You’d make an extraordinary wolf.”

A long, low growl reverberates through the room. Derek pads over on huge paws and leans heavily against Stiles’ legs. It’s to keep his balance, really, that Stiles grabs a handful of fur, not because it looks extremely soft and cuddly or not at all because this might be his last chance.

Wodan turns to Peter. “Make your choice, Peter Hale. Join us, or die.”

“I’ve done the dying bit,” Peter says. He’s aiming for casual but the resonance in his voice belies him even to Stiles, “and it was exactly as much fun as it sounds. I think I’ll come with you.”

“One more thing,” Stiles says, moving so he stands beside instead of behind Derek. “Scott is free to make his own choices.”

“Scott,” Wodan says, and Stiles already knows they won’t yield on this, “has two years to finish school and then join the Hale pack or leave. Beacon Hills is too small for two packs. Either he submits to Derek or he goes. If that’s a problem––”

“It’s not,” Scott says, speaking for the first time. He comes to stand by Stiles, grips his elbow briefly. A squeeze meaning, _I’m sorry_ and _thank you_ all in one. “It won’t be.” Scott glances at Derek and Stiles swears he can see pride and gratefulness behind Derek’s dark wolf-eyes. 

“Mr Argent,” Wodan says, his smile curving around a pair of fangs and Stiles is surprised this is who the last figure at the back of the room ends up being. “I believe you’ll find something in the basement that belongs to you.”

Chris stares, staying silent for a long time, until he says, “Gerard?” Wodan says nothing, just spreads his hands. “Is he still alive?”

Wodan’s smile turns wicked. “Mostly.”

“What happened to not harming humans,” Stiles says when Chris is gone.

“I believe the key word there is human,” Freya tells him.

“Point,” Stiles allows. 

“Are we done?” Freya says. “Or do you have more demands to make, Stiles Stilinski.” There’s humor in her voice but a lower edge of threat too. He’s pushing his boundaries and for once, Stiles doesn’t feel the need to overstep them.

“We’re done,” he says. The air around the two alphas shimmers, and without the awful bone-popping noises Stiles never will get used to from the others, they’re suddenly in the room with two beautiful white wolves. Their coats are thick and heavy like they belong in colder climates. 

The one that is Wodan trots over to Peter, who looks around the room one last time. Stiles nearly feels a pang of regret, because Derek’s last family is about to leave, and Peter will very likely never see his old house again. But then Peter looks down, offers Wodan his wrist, and Wodan bites.

On the tail end of a memory of a blocked-out moment in a parking lot, the brief sentiment toward Peter is gone as fast as it came.

Peter changes, a full, brown and white wolf himself now, instead of the twisted creature he was before, and then they’re gone. For a small infinity, Stiles is lost, doesn’t know whether to kneel at Derek’s paws and offer his throat in submission and apology, when Derek’s ears twitch. As if some magical boundary fell away when the alpha’s left, Derek lifts his nose and sniffs, howls ear rending and mournfully and bounds away. 

There’s a brief, selfish moment wherein Stiles believes this is about him, until he too hears the answering howls, coming from what sound like a dozen wolves but he guesses are only two.

“Erica and Boyd,” Stiles says.

“Yeah,” Scott answers him, taking his elbow again and holding it like Stiles is something fragile. “Let me take you home.”

It’s nearly the end of summer break and Stiles hasn’t seen Derek at all. Erica and Boyd came by twice. The first time there was a lot of, _Thanks for––_ on their part and _I wish I had––_ and _I’m sorry for––_ from Stiles. The second time he’d woken up to a mouthful of blond hair and Boyd’s heavy arm across his chest.

“Wha––?” he’d mumbled but before he could say anything else, they’d sheepishly slunk out of his window. 

With Derek ... yeah. Stiles doesn’t know who’s avoiding who, really. That’s probably what makes it so effective. Even Dad has taken to giving him _looks_. These sad little smiles during dinner like the one he’s wearing now. He’s got one elbow on the table and a hand in his hair and he’s clearing his throat. 

“You know, son,” he hazards and Stiles instantly wants to flee. “Derek’s welcome here, anytime. Any of your friends are, obviously. I know––” he sighs, drawn-out and tired. “––I know most of them don’t have the best situations at home, including you.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles interrupts, because _no_. Just, no. “You’re great.”

“Stiles––”

“No! Listen to me, I know we don’t talk about this stuff, but just for once, let me––”

“Okay, okay,” Dad says, dropping his fork in his mashed potatoes and holding up both hands in amused surrender. “Go on.”

It’s suddenly hard to, now that he’s lost his momentum but Stiles has fucked up so much in the past year, he needs to say it. “You’re great. You really are. When Mom died it was _awful_. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I literally had no _idea_. It was like … she was half my world. Do you remember––” 

Stiles blinks against the sting. Finds he can’t actually say it. He’d been five years old when he learned about death, that it meant never seeing someone ever again and he’d been terrified Mom and Dad would die and he’d be all alone. Mom had said, _Yes, Stiles. Dad and I will eventually die but not until you’re much, much older. When you have kids and even grandkids of your own._

“Well, that’s okay then,” he’d said because clearly he’d be _ancient_ when that time came. And then she’d died anyway. 

“It was like everything ended, like I’d never be able to breathe enough oxygen again.” _I was mad at her because she’d lied to me_ , he thinks but he doesn’t say it. It’s a sentiment he’s ashamed of but can’t shake even after all these years and the rationality they brought. “But you sat by me night after night until I fell asleep, Dad. You made it bearable. And all I’ve done is made your life harder.”

“Stiles––”

“No, I’m not done.” He has to get it all out now. “Every single lie I told over the past year was ... okay ninety percent stupidity, but the other ten was to make sure you wouldn’t get involved. I couldn’t lose you too. I’m sorry. You’d have every right to ground me for life, to take me out of Beacon Hills High and stick me into boarding school, to prevent me from ever seeing Scott or any of the others again. Only here you are about to tell me they can come over whenever they like.” 

Stiles sighs and picks up his fork so he can look down and stab at his broccoli. “You’re the best, Dad.” It comes out all wrong and like an accusation instead of the reconciliation it’s meant to be. 

It’s silent for a long time. Stiles’ potatoes are cold when he puts a forkful in his mouth for something to do.

“Well,” Dad begins gruffly. His eyes are a bit red when Stiles risks a look. “I was thinking about redoing the spare bedroom. We could easily fit two singles in there. And maybe you’ve outgrown your room too. It’s time to get you a bigger, uh, furniture. It could be a birthday present,” Dad adds quickly just when Stiles is about to protest. “And anytime any of ... the pack, need a place to stay, they’re welcome.”

Stiles ducks his head and grins at his plate. “Like I said. The best.” This time it sounds right.

That evening, while Stiles is busy going over his school stuff, Scott climbs through the window.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You can totally use the door, dude,” he huffs.

“Yeah I know,” Scott says and he sounds mad, so Stiles looks up. “But this isn’t a best friend visit.”

“Then what is it,” Stiles asks, arching an eyebrow. Something he didn’t pick up from Derek. No sir.

“It’s a get your shit together visit.” Scott crosses his arms and Stiles will never admit this to anyone ever, but Scott can be pretty intimidating. His boundaries need to be pushed pretty far and apparently Stiles has reached customs. “You need to go talk to Derek.”

“No.” Stiles turns back to the books on his desk and sorts them in a random pile. 

“I know you slept with him.”

Stiles turns back to Scott so fast, he hits his elbow off the desk chair. “What?” He demands around a painful wince. “I –– Does Derek –– Did he remember?”

“He didn’t _have_ to remember, Stiles, he could smell you all over him from the moment his memories were back. We could _all_ smell you all over each other that day. We just kept our mouths shut out of, I don’t know, politeness or whatever.”

“But.” This is beyond Stiles’ comprehension. His mind has gone an astonishing panicky blank. If he’d known Derek _knew_ , he’d have spent the last few weeks being far more afraid for his life. “You _knew_? All this time? Why didn’t you say something? Why hasn’t Derek _murdered_ me yet? What is––”

“Murder you?” Scott asks, dropping his arms. He’s looking at Stiles like he just grew a second head. “Why would he murder you?”

“Oh I don’t know?” Stiles bites out, anger his unstoppable defense. “For me taking advantage of him, maybe? For having kissed him and for sleeping with him, knowing full well Derek’d never want that if he’d had all his faculties? Scott, what I did was _horrible_.” The last word comes out on a desperate choke because the vague nausea that’s been eating him for weeks, hits him full on. He doubles over, clutching his stomach, mumbling, “Fuck, fuck, what have I done, how could I have _done_ that?”

Scott’s feet are walking closer but Scott doesn’t touch him. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that to yourself. This is ridiculous, you guys just need to _talk_ to each other. I’m not even supposed to be here. We’ve all been forbidden to say anything about this but I can’t stand the smell of guilt around Derek anymore. And the last person who needs more of that crap in his life, is Derek.”

“Wait,” Stiles gasps, bracing his hands on his knees like he’s been running. “ _Derek_ feels guilty?”

The look Scott gives him is stony. “Fix it, Stiles. Now.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” is the first thing that comes out of Derek’s mouth. It’s not very encouraging and if Stiles wasn’t half distracted by the shards of glass that are piled off to the left of the house, he might have had to admit there’s no denying; he’s a mouse, not a lion.

It’s not just glass. All the windows are empty and there are torn pieces of burnt and water-damaged drywall gathering in an even bigger pile, dust settling on that one as if it just got added to. 

“Are you renovating the house?” Stiles asks, momentarily forgotten why he’s there. Derek’s jaw works, his eyes dark and foreboding when Stiles looks at him and _oh_. It nearly knocks him back to see Derek look at him like that again. “Never mind,” Stiles says, going cold down to his bones. He automatically takes a step toward his Jeep even though there couldn’t really be any more distance between them while still being able to hold a conversation. Not that there will be much of one.

And then Derek surprises him. “You said –– you told the alphas I’d do something about the house.”

Stiles huffs, stops it last minute from becoming a laugh. “I didn’t mean all on your own. You’re going to need contractors and electricians, I mean, some of the supporting walls are rotted through. You can’t––”

“That’s already been done. I haven’t been on my own.” It’s getting dark enough that Derek’s expression is pretty unreadable but it’s not like that makes any difference.

“Right.” Stiles wants to rub his eyes but he doesn’t. “Of course.” Of course Derek hasn’t been alone. It’s just Stiles he’s been avoiding. While Stiles avoided him back. The pack have probably all been here over the past couple of weeks, helping out. Tearing down. 

Rebuilding.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles mumbles. The urge to just get in the car and drive off is pretty overwhelming but he knows chances of coming back here anytime soon are slim, so; “I’m sorry. For –– what I did. For everything. I know it was –– that I shouldn’t have. I feel really bad and I’m sorry.” It’s weak, as far as apologies go, but his mouth feels numb and he doesn’t think he can say more.

“You’re sorry,” Derek says without any inflection. He walks off the porch like it isn’t a five step drop and the last of the daylight hits his face. “You’re sorry because what you did was shitty? Or you’re sorry that I know.” Derek advances and Stiles has never, ever felt this awful in his life. “What exactly was it, huh Stiles? Did I give you a blow job? Did you give me one? Or did we jerk each other off? Did you like it? Did I? Tell me, did I fuck you or did I let you do it to m––”

Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue, manages a, “Derek, stop,” and backs away from him until his back hits the Jeep. For a second something raw and hurt flashes across Derek’s face. “I’m sorry. I can’t say it enough, I’m––”

“Shut up,” Derek growls, breathing hard through his nose. “Shut _up_. You’re sorry, because it must’ve been such a _hardship_ for me, to have sex with a _sixteen year old_.”

“Seventeen,” Stiles protests pathetically, feeling his eyes bulge as Derek still walks closer until there’s barely two feet between them.

“I’m the one who took advantage of _you_ , Stiles. Maybe I didn’t remember the details of my past, but I still knew I was a lot older than you and I should’ve _known better_.” Derek takes a deep breath to go on but his eyes widen almost comically and he staggers back. “God and you still––” Derek breathes out before he snaps his mouth shut.

“It wasn’t like that,” Stiles says. “I wanted it.” Fuck it, he has nothing to lose. There is absolutely nothing on this earth that could make this any worse. “You were so … _you_ but without all the pain and the anger, and I just _wanted_.”

“Of course you did, you’re a teenager, you’d give it up for anyone,” Derek tells him and he looks so disgusted Stiles wants to cry.

“That’s not true,” Stiles says quietly. “You know that’s not true. That’s not who I am.”

Shaking his head, Derek closes his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t on you and you shouldn’t feel guilty about––”

“And neither should you!” Stiles bursts out. “I consented. Enthusiastically.” His face goes bright red. “While I can’t say the same for you.”

“Stiles, I should never have fucked a minor,” Derek barks out, something desperate and wild in his eyes that Stiles maybe understands but is afraid to ask about.

“You didn’t,” he whispers, knowing Derek will hear him loud and clear. There’s no way he can say this actually out loud. “You said –– you said you wouldn’t take that away from the real you. The one who’d be able to remember. After.”

Derek’s whole body goes absolutely still in that preternatural werewolf way of his. “I –– say that again?”

Stiles takes a deep breath and says it slowly, letting Derek listen for a lie that’s not there. “You didn’t fuck me.”

“But your room, it smelled so––”

“You were in my _room_?” Stiles demands, mouth dropping open. “When?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting away as if he’s been caught out. “That first night I got my memory back. I thought –– I wanted to talk to you, to fix things. If I could. But the _smell_ in your room was overwhelming. I could barely–– And it’s still there. I can smell it on you right now,” He grits his teeth, presses his lips into a tight line before going on. “Like you’re claimed. That’s why I thought––”

“No,” Stiles murmurs, “we didn’t.” He hesitates, can’t look up from Derek’s feet. “I would’ve. I wanted to.” Stiles exhales shakily. “I still –– I still do.” There’s a silence and it takes Stiles forever to gather his courage and look at Derek. “Did anyone tell you what the spell was? How you ended up on the road to my house, I mean?”

“I’m not him,” is what Derek says after a curt nod, and yeah, Stiles expects it, but it still hurts like hell.

“I know. I don’t expect you to, to reciprocate. I really don’t, I just –– I need you to know that I don’t regret being with you other than the way it happened. And I really am sorry for giving in to––”

“That’s not what I mean, Stiles,” Derek interrupts, annoyed. “What I mean is, _I’m not him_. I’m not the person you––” He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to.

“I’ve always known who you are,” Stiles tells him quietly. “I just got to know the Derek from before, a little bit. That’s all. And he wanted me back. And it was nice, while it lasted. It just wasn’t real.”

Stiles can’t stand this anymore. His eyes are burning and he knows he’s seconds away from them spilling over. Fuck it if he’s going to humiliate himself all the way and cry in front of Derek. That’d _really_ not help with the whole, I’m an adult I knew what I was doing thing he’s trying to spin.

He leaves.

School is a bland and boring form of torture. It’s refreshing, really. Erica and Boyd still give them all a wide berth but Isaac joins them for lunch nearly every day. Stiles doesn’t mind sharing Scott, it’s the sad puppy-eyes that get to him. It has him bowing out of after school lacrosse sessions more often than not. It looks like Lydia and Allison are becoming tentative friends again, and Stiles thinks he’ll get there one day. Just, not yet. He can forgive her for maybe not knowing her granddad had him locked in their basement, but he heard what she did to Erica and Boyd, and … yeah. It’s gonna take a while.

He’s by his desk, checking his reading list one night, when a breeze hits the back of his neck and he turns around.

“Do you want it to be?” Derek asks. He looks windswept and sort of madly intense –– or intensely mad –– and Stiles blinks at him owlishly, trying to come to terms with Derek being _in his room again_. He has no idea what he means.

“Uh?” Stiles mumbles, watching Derek take a deliberate step closer. His hand rises and he gently fingers the skin above Stiles’ collarbone, where the love bite has long since faded. Derek must’ve seen it when he came to talk to Stiles but never woke him up.

“Do you want it to be?” Derek repeats slowly, like he’s laying something out on his sleeve for Stiles to hear.

Stiles thinks hard, about what he’d said before he left Derek standing in front of his half-rebuilt house. _It just wasn’t real._

Mouth too dry to respond, Stiles tugs at Derek’s jacket, pulling himself up. His heart is hammering madly and when he puts his hand on Derek’s chest, he can feel Derek’s is too. 

“Derek,” he says, quiet, desperate. He’s afraid to hope, he hasn’t allowed himself to want this anymore, but who’s he kidding? Just hearing Derek breathe so close to his skin is making Stiles feel more whole than he has in weeks. Maybe much longer than that, but he can’t bear to analyse it right now. 

Bringing them closer together until their foreheads nearly touch, Stiles hears Derek inhale with purpose. He responds to it like he’s Pavlov’s dog, knowing exactly what it means. Derek’s hand moves to the back of his neck and Stiles can’t stop the full-body shudder.

It feels so good to have Derek’s hands on him again. Stiles doesn’t think he’d fully realized exactly how lost he’d been, without it. 

He’d been a bit out of his depth, the first time he kissed and touched Derek but he knows now. What Derek likes and loves and what makes him feel good. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to use that. In memory of a moment he’ll tell Derek about some day, Stiles drags his thumb over Derek’s mouth, parts it until he can see the wetness shine within and kisses it. He makes it languorous and deep, Derek’s tongue wet and soft in his mouth, Stiles stepping as close as he can get, his thighs parting around Derek’s leg.

Derek breaks away and looks down, resting his forehead on Stiles’ clavicle. “Jesus,” he whispers, like he’s completely gutted and Stiles feels it all the way down to his belly. “Jesus, Stiles.” 

There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones and Stiles rubs at it with his thumb. He feels vulnerable under Stiles’ hands, breakable, and it makes Stiles’ chest clench. He’ll do anything, _anything_ to bring that confidence to the surface. He’ll give his all to make Derek feel safe enough to touch Stiles anywhere he pleases, whenever he wants, like the Derek who hadn’t been broken, had. 

Derek sighs and swallows and then presses his lips against Stiles’ ear. “I don’t …” The hand on Stiles’ back lowers so Derek’s fingertips graze the edge of Stiles’ jeans. “I don’t remember. And I don’t. Know how to do this anymore,” he mumbles.

Stiles bites down a moan and closes his eyes. He’s fisting Derek’s jacket to keep himself upright. “That’s okay,” he murmurs, “I do.” He smirks a little. “Probably.” Derek works his hand under Stiles’ t-shirt and puts it warm and broad over his back, giving him support. 

Which is a good thing because the next thing Derek says, is, “I don’t want you to hold back. You can do whatever you want to me.”

Stiles makes an unidentifiable noise and clings harder. “Good,” he breathes, holding himself up and away from Derek’s mouth by sheer force of will. “ _Good,_ because there’s payback in your future.” He’s trembling, head to toe, feeling delirious with relief and anticipation and bone-deep content. “And it involves my mouth and some very sensitive places.”

Derek’s utterly still for a second, isn’t even breathing and Stiles thinks maybe he doesn’t get it, but then Derek sounds pained when he mumbles, “I did _that_ to you?” 

“Didn’t you just,” Stiles says, flushing deep and dark so he feels goosebumps trailing heat all the way down to his toes. Derek pulls back to look at Stiles, still close enough his mouth catches wet and hot on Stiles’ lips.

“You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?” Derek says and then he smiles, small and barely there. 

_One,_ Stiles thinks.

 

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> There is more art than what is shown here, but for some reason it won't allow me to embed the pieces. I will rectify this as soon as I work out how, in the meantime you can check out the art at [Alby_Mangroves' journal](http://alby-mangroves.livejournal.com/17380.html) once she has arisen from her slumber half way across the world.
> 
> Also no apocalypse \o/
> 
> Edit: I've tried in all the different ways to correct the art, Alby providing me with different codes and everything, and nothing seems to work, so please go leave her all the love either on her LJ or [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/602978/chapters/1087008). Her art is so stunning, I feel terrible I can't add it in.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic of) Our Memories Are Numbered by Rufflefeather](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549694) by [chemm80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80)




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